“A sick Yankee down in Hetty’s cabin,—a Boston one at that, with his Wendell Phillips notions, and you want me to let him be brought up to _this house_, the house of a Southern gentleman, who, if he hates one of the dogs worse than another, hates the Massachusetts kind, whose women have nothing to do but to write Abolition books about our niggers. No, indeed; he shall not come an inch, and by the Harry I’ll send for the authorities and have him bundled off to jail before night, with his camp fever, and his Boston airs. Needn’t talk. See if I don’t do it, and I’ll have Hetty strung up and whipped for harboring the villain. Treason under my very nose, and a Yankee, too! Go away,—go away, I tell you. I won’t hear you. I hate ’em all for the cussedness there is in ’em.” This was Squire Tunbridge’s reply to Maude De Vere, who had told him of Tom Carleton, and asked permission to have him moved up to the house. Nothing daunted, Maude went close up to him, and her beautiful eyes looked straight into his as she said: “Think if it was Arthur sick among his enemies. They were kind to him, he says, and remember Nettie, too. Had she lived she would have married a Northern man. You liked Robert, and Nettie loved him. For her sake let this man be brought to the house. He will die there, where it is so close.” “Serve him right for coming down here to fight us; wish they were all dead. How are you going to get the rascal up that confounded hill? Can he walk?” Maude had gained her point, and with Mrs. Tunbridge, who had a soft, kind heart, she hastened to make ready a large, airy chamber, somewhat remote from the rooms occupied by the family and their frequent guests. It was not the best room in the house, but he would be safer there than elsewhere, and Maude made it as inviting as possible, by pulling the bed out from the corner to the centre of the room, covering the plain stand with a clean, white towel, and the table with a gaily-colored shawl of her own. Then with Hetty and one of Hetty’s sons she started for the cabin, followed by the Squire himself. Since the war began he had not seen a Yankee, and curiosity as much as anything took him to Tom Carleton, whom he assailed with a string of epithets, telling him “to see what he’d got by making war on people so much better than himself. Good enough for you,” he continued, as, assisted by Hetty and Claib, Tom tried to walk up the winding path, with Maude in front and the Squire in the rear. “Yes, good enough for you, if you die like a dog, and I dare say you will. Fevers go hard with you Bunker Hill chaps. _Claib_, you villain, you are letting him fall. Don’t you see he hasn’t strength to walk? Carry him, you rascal!” And thus changing the nature of his tirade the Squire thrust his cane against Tom’s back by way of assisting him up the hill.