Having this hint in my mind, when Noah began to address the daughter I favored the mother with a word or two on safe topics, principally the weather and the condition of the roads. For all that, I could tell how the mother, like myself, had her ears laid back to catch the words of the others. Her suspicions were upon us from the start, even with the guaranty of the Reverend Campbell's company. As for that perturbed animal, he looked only upon the floor, saying never a syllable, and rubbing one warty hand with the other in a composite of doubt and trepidation. The tragic wrath of the General still sang in the hare-hearted creature's head. “We are being shown about by our reverend friend,” I heard Noah say; “we were asked to make a few calls with him and meet the better folk. We were too glad, I assure you; I grow vastly weary of nobody save the politicians and nothing better to talk of than politics.” To say that I was startled at these gay, glib fictions on the lips of my companion would fall behind the fact; I was amazed. But I also had the General's command to leave leadership to Noah, and so stood mute. I let my gaze go for a moment to the Reverend Campbell to come by some thought of how he took the trend of Noah's surprising discourse. I saw naught beyond the top of his head, as, bowed forward in his chair, he appeared to study his toes, meanwhile twiddling and rubbing his nobby fingers. As for the women, they knew no argument of fact or otherwise for distrusting Noah's statements. I should have before explained that neither possessed the least of glimmer as to our identity or nearness to the General. Indeed, they lived ignorant, we found later, of the letters of that Ely ill-using Peg's name, and of the Reverend Campbell's visit to the General paid that morning. Thus, it fell about that the daughter sailed off with Noah on a current of conversation in the dark, and the mother just as blind. “And so,” Noah went on, “you are a copyist in the Department of Justice.” This from her explanation and his notice of a stain of ink near her finger-nail, for this daughter was an untidy slut. “The Department of Justice!” repeated Noah. “And there is something consistent in your employment in such a field, since Justice is a woman--and blind.” This last quip under his breath. “I am a close friend with Judge Berrien, the Attorney General, who heads your department. The great tie to unite us is our love for Calhoun.” “Are you a friend of the Vice-President?” asked the daughter, her interest a little kindled. “Perhaps partisan would be the truer word,” replied Noah. “I trust a good day will come when we are to drop the 'Vice' to his title and find him at home in the White House. And you, I suppose, meet many of Calhoun's adherents in your Department of Justice?” “Numbers, indeed,” assented the daughter, while the mother bent an intent ear, trying to discover the drift.