And in the meantime the Supreme Court had announced its decision in the Dred Scott case, delighting the South, staggering the North, and fanning to still higher and hotter flame the fires of contention over the ever-burning question of slavery. Jefferson Delavan heard the news as he fumed over his delay, storm-bound in the hotel of a country town. He and half a dozen other slave owners from the town and near-by plantations, who dropped into the hotel during the evening, rejoiced over the victory as they sat around a bowl of punch. “This will put an end to the whole controversy and give the country peace at last,” said Delavan. “It knocks the feet from under the Republican party,” declared another. “They’ll be capable of no more mischief now!” “Yes, gentlemen,” exclaimed a third, “it surely ties the hands of the northern fanatics. They can no longer stop our growth!” “Under the protection of this decision,” Delavan followed on, “we can take our slaves wherever we like, and, with the northern Democracy becoming more and more favorable to us, we shall soon win back the ground we have lost!” “Nor will our growth be all in that direction!” said another, slowly and significantly. “No, indeed!” was Delavan’s quick response. “Mexico and Central America will be ours for the taking as soon as we realize our strength. Gentlemen!” He sprang to his feet, his face glowing with enthusiasm, his glass held high. “Gentlemen, I give you a toast: To the Republic of the South, our own fair Land of Dixie, firm footed on the foundation of slavery, and spreading wide wings North, South, East and West; her day shall come soon and endure forever!” With shouts of approval the others were on their feet at once, drinking the toast, cheering the sentiment, and waving hats, pipes, glasses, whatever their hands could seize. And no ghost of a misgiving visited Jefferson Delavan, in the midst of their exultant rejoicing, as to how that decision might affect his personal fate. To Rhoda Ware, as she looked back upon them, the days following that of her adventure with the negro lad were like a beautiful dream. After her one moment of apprehension she did not believe that she had put into her letter the telltale sheet whereon she had poured out her heart. She was sure she had burned it. But that instant of anxious fear that her lover would read her confession had given to her traitor heart its opportunity. In the brief respite of secret rejoicing she had allowed it to take, it had leaped to the saddle and it would not give up again to her mind and conscience the right of command. So she submitted to the sway of her love and battled with it no more. “He will know--he will feel it, even though I didn’t send what I wrote,” she whispered to herself. “And if he doesn’t come soon, I will write to him--and tell him--yes, I’ll tell him to come!”