During the spring before he had gone south himself to a convention at Montgomery, and he had spoken there against one of the greatest of the Southern orators. His state had upheld him, but the Major had not. He came home to find his old neighbour red with resentment, and refusing for the first few days to shake the hand of “a man who would tamper with the honour of Virginia.” At the end of the week the Major's hand was held out, but his heart still bore his grievance, and he began quoting William L. Yancey, as he had once quoted Mr. Addison. In the little meetings at Uplands or at Chericoke, he would now declaim the words of the impassioned agitator as vigorously as in the old days he had recited those of the polished gentleman of letters. The rector and the doctor would sit silent and abashed, and only the Governor would break in now and then with: “You go too far, Major. There is a step from which there is no drawing back, and that step means ruin to your state, sir.” “Ruin, sir? Nonsense! nonsense! We made the Union, and we'll unmake it when we please. We didn't make slavery; but, if Virginia wants slaves, by God, sir, she shall have slaves!” It was after such a discussion in the Governor's library that the old gentleman rose one evening to depart in his wrath. “The man who sits up in my presence and questions my right to own my slaves is a damned black abolitionist, sir,” he thundered as he went, and by the time he reached his coach he was so blinded by his rage that Congo, the driver, was obliged to lift him bodily into his seat. “Dis yer ain' no way ter do, Ole Marster,” said the negro, reproachfully. “How I gwine teck cyar you like Ole Miss done tole me, w'en you let yo' bile git ter yo' haid like dis? 'Tain' no way ter do, suh.” The Major was too full for silence; and, ignoring the Governor, who had hurried out to beseech him to return, he let his rage burst forth. “I can't help it, Congo, I can't help it!” he said. “They want to take you from me, do you hear? and that black Republican party up north wants to take you, too. They say I've no right to you, Congo,--bless my soul, and you were born on my own land!” “Go 'way, Ole Marster, who gwine min' w'at dey say?” returned Congo, soothingly. “You des better wrop dat ar neck'chif roun' yo' thoat er Ole Miss'll git atter you sho' es you live!” The Major wiped his eyes on the end of the neckerchief as he tied it about his throat. “But, if they elect their President, he may send down an army to free you,” he went on, with something like a sob of anger, “and I'd like to know what we'd do then, Congo.” “Lawd, Lawd, suh,” said Congo, as he wrapped the robe about his master's knees. “Did you ever heah tell er sech doin's!” then, as he mounted the box, he leaned down and called out reassuringly, “Don' you min', Ole Marster, we'll des loose de dawgs on 'em, dat's w'at we'll do,” and they rolled off indignantly, leaving the Governor half angry and half apologetic upon his portico.