"You hunt them, too, don't you? With dogs, most of the time, I hear." There was no mistaking the bitterness in his voice now. The boy's face sobered in an instant. He felt as if someone had shot at him from behind a tree. "Not that I ever saw, sir," he answered, quickly, straightening himself, a peculiar light in his eyes. "We love ours." "Love 'em? Well, you don't treat 'em as if you loved 'em." Margaret saw the cloud on Oliver's face and made a step toward her father. "Mr. Horn lives in the city, father, and never sees such things." "Well, if he does he knows all about it. You own negroes, don't you?" The voice was louder; the manner a trifle more insistent. Oliver could hardly keep his temper. Only Margaret's anxious face held him in check. "No; not now, sir--my father freed all of his." The tones were thin and cold. Margaret had never heard any such sound before from those laughing lips. Silas Grant was leaning forward out of his chair. The iron jaw was doing the talking now. "Where are these negroes?" he persisted. "Two of them are living with us, sir. They are in my father's house now." "Rather shiftless kind of help, I guess. You've got to watch 'em all the time, I hear. Steal everything they get their hands on, don't they?" This was said with a dry, hard laugh that was meant to be conciliatory--as if he expected Oliver to agree with him now that he had had his say. Oliver turned quickly toward his host's chair. For a moment he was so stunned and hurt that he could hardly trust himself to speak. He looked up and saw the expression of pain on Margaret's face, and instantly remembered where he was and who was offending him. "Our house-servants, Mr. Grant, are part of our home," he said, in a low, determined voice, without a trace of anger. "Old Malachi, who was my father's body-servant, and who is now our butler, is as much beloved by everyone as if he were one of the family. For myself, I can never remember the time when I did not love Malachi." Before her father could answer, Margaret had her hand on Oliver's shoulder. "Don't tell all your good stories to father now," she said, with a grateful smile. "Wait until after dinner, when we can all hear them. Come, Mr. Horn, I know you want to get the dust out of your eyes." Then in an aside, "Don't mind him, Ollie. It's only father's way, and he's the dearest father in the world when you understand him," and she pressed his arm meaningly as they walked to the door. Before they reached the threshold the gate swung to with a click, and a young man with a scythe slung over his shoulder strode up the path. He was in the garb of a farm-hand; trousers tucked into his boots, shirt open at the throat, and head covered by a coarse straw hat. This shaded a good-natured, sun-burnt face, lighted by two bright blue eyes. "Oh, here comes my brother John," Margaret cried. "Hurry up, John--here's Mr. Horn."