She took him to her father’s door, but Dr. Ware was engaged with a patient. The stranger asked if it were not she who had been concerned, the previous autumn, in the escape of the slave girl, Lear White, and they talked of that affair and of the consequences to which it led. She felt a magnetic quality in his grave and mellow tones, and in the steady gaze of his deep-set eyes, alert, luminous, penetrating, she was conscious of that compelling force that lies in the look of all men able to impress themselves upon others. Presently he told her who he was and she thrilled as she heard him speak the words, “Captain John Brown, of Kansas.” “My father and I have spoken of you often, Captain Brown,” she said, her eyes and face lighting with the admiration which abolitionists felt for the man whom already they regarded as a hero. “Yes. We have known each other for many years, and we have been agreed about slavery since a time when there were so few of us that we all felt as brothers.” She had many questions to ask of matters in Kansas, where, she found, he knew the husband of her friend, Julia Hammerton. As they talked she saw presently that his eyes were fixed upon Bully Brooks, who, in full grown feline dignity, was sunning himself on the veranda. The cat’s air of complacent ease disappeared and, after some worried movements, it suddenly sprang up with arched back and swelling tail, spat its displeasure and ran away. Charlotte, coming in at the east gate, saw her pet’s performance and shot a questioning glance at Rhoda and the stranger as she passed them. A little later, when her father had taken Captain Brown into his office, Rhoda found Charlotte with Bully Brooks in her lap, alternately soothing his ruffled dignity and stirring him to angry protest. “Rhoda, who is that horrid old man?” she demanded. “Why do you call him horrid? He is the finest, noblest-looking old man I’ve ever seen, and his character is as noble as his appearance.” “Oh, la! I asked you who he is.” Rhoda hesitated, considering whether or not it would be prudent to let Charlotte know the identity of her father’s visitor. For there was much pro-southern sentiment in Hillside and, although John Brown was not yet an outlaw with a price on his head, he was detested and considered an active enemy by all friends of the South. Charlotte noted her pause and bent upon her a keen gaze. Apparently Rhoda did not want to tell her who he was and therefore it became at once an urgent necessity for her to find out. Rhoda felt those intent brown eyes studying her face and decided it would be better not to give her sister reason for suspecting any mystery. “I suppose he’s some old nigger-stealer,” Charlotte was saying, still watching Rhoda’s expression, “and that’s why you think he’s such a noble character. Lloyd thinks, and so do I, that nigger-stealing ought to be punished by hanging.”