“I don’t prezackly understood it,” said Kelly, “but I know eleven ain’t so much as thirteen nor sixteen; and I do reckon it makes it easier. I reckon it’s mo’ cause the white folks wants all the money and the offices theirselves, as makes the fuss.” “Yes,” drawled Pompey, “and dey makes any man a carpet-bagger dat wa’n’t baun in de South, an’ some ’publicans as was. De Governor has been in de State, an’ all he’s got, now ’leven year; Kanrasp said so; an’ Cummings—de head teacher o’ de big school in Columby—de Versity dey calls it—he’s been in de South thirty year an’ mo’; an’ dey calls him a carpet-bagger, too, an’ all his boys; but de boys was baun here. But den dey is ’publicans an’ teaches niggers, too, I wonder is dey any carpet-baggers up North or anywhere?” “I don’t know, I never did hear tell of ’em; but the No’th beat in the wa’, you know. But ’bout this killin’ niggers; I’m a thinken, the Lo’d knows we has had enough o’ that: but I can’t help thinking,” said Kelly, and the two men entered into a long conversation upon the subject which we will not follow, as our present interest is with Deacon Atwood, who had resumed his way with Kelly’s quaint and expressive phrase “must have lost all conscience of heart,” as his constant and sole companion, for he had not yet “lost _all_ conscience of heart.” Arrived at home, he ate his evening meal in haste and silence, and immediately set out for the hall where his Rifle Club met, accompanied by his eldest son, who was a minor by a few months. Mrs. A. shouted after him, admonishing to an early return, as she did “detest these night meetings, anyhow.” The father and son rode in silence, while the short Southern twilight faded, and night settled upon the picturesque landscape, soft as the brooding wing of peace; and balmy breezes rustled through the gigantic long-leaved pines and mammoth live-oaks, and over fields of sprouting corn and cotton; and the dark soil seemed to sleep calmly and sweetly under the white moonlight and a sprinkling of white sand, which sparkled like snow. “Watson, my son,” said the Deacon at length. “Yes, father.” An ominous silence warned the boy of a weighty communication forthcoming. “I’d rather yo’d ’a ’staid to home to-night, but as I’d promised yo’ going, it couldn’t be helped. I reckon we’ll have an exciting time, but now as yo’ are a going, _try to keep cool_. Like enough thar’ll be some things said that better not; but as yo’ll be present, now mind what I say, and keep cool. Try to be careful. Don’t get excited nor be imprudent. It’ll do for us to foller the rest. Just let them take the lead and the responsibility.” “Well, father,” replied the youth demurely, well knowing that his cautious parent would be the first tinder to take fire and lead any conflagration that might be imminent.