"I don't know, but I'd like to, ever so much." "Then go with me." "Oh, that would be delightful, and I will be ready when you call for me. Do you dance?" "I think," said he, "that I might have courage enough to rob a stage-coach or to fight a duel in a dark room, but I'm afraid that I couldn't summon the nerve to get out before a number of people and try to dance." "Oh, you wouldn't mind it at all. Just as soon as the music strikes up you forget all about yourself. But isn't it dull about here? Nothing to do but to sit about and wait. Last year I visited an aunt who lives in Connecticut, and I had such a nice time. Everyone there is so active. But, after all, I was kept angry a good deal over the negro question. I never did get so tired of hearing a subject dinged upon. They hate us and can't help showing it; and they actually believe that one of these days they'll come down here, and, as they express it, turn the negroes loose. They believe we keep them chained together all the time; and that hateful book, 'Uncle Tom's Cabin,' is their bible. Have you ever seen it?" "My uncle brought a copy with him and I read it," Bob answered. "I don't care for its principles, whether they are true or false--literature being its own principle--but to me it bears the mark of a political pamphlet that has happened to make a hit, strong with prejudice but hasty and slip-shod in expression. To me there is no art in it, no imagination but all sermon. The characters are unreal, standing in the light of a red fire; they are talking-machines, grinding out music-box melodies, set homilies; but the subject is powerful and the book needs no art to give it force. And many a year will pass before we hear the last of it." "Why, Mr. Gradley, you can take an interest in light books after all. I was afraid that you were determined to keep yourself chained to the venerable masters of--of--what shall I say?--venerable masters of profound thought. That will do, won't it?" "Very appropriate, I assure you, but 'Uncle Tom's Cabin' can scarcely be classed as a light book. It comes in a light garb but its nature is most serious." The horse shied at a piece of paper fluttering in the road, and with a little scream she seized the lines. He asked her if she would give them back when she should find that no longer was there any danger, and laughing rhythmically and with blushes she returned the lines to him. "No, apology and no embarrassment," said he. "It came of woman's instinctive sense of protection, of her responsibility at a time of peril." "Now you are making fun of me, Mr. Gradley. Oh, boy (turning to look at me). What's his name? Dan? Oh, yes. How's my horse coming on, Dan? Well, for pity's sake, if he hasn't turned him loose."