“Is it true. Madam, that you once endowed a home for homeless cats before you became interested in the black people?” With a twinkle in his eye the Preacher softly asked this apparently irrelevant question. “Yes, sir, I did,--I am proud of it. I love cats. There are over a thousand in the home now, and they are well cared for. Whose business is it?” “I meant no offense by the question. I love cats too. But I wondered if you were collecting negroes only now, or, whether you were adding other specimens to your menagerie for experimental purposes.” She bit her lips, and in spite of her efforts to restrain her anger, tears sprang to her eyes as she turned toward the Preacher whose face now looked calmly down upon her with ill-concealed pride. “Oh! the insolence of you Southern people toward those who dare to differ with you about the Negro!” she cried with rage. “I confess it humbly as a Christian, it is true. My scorn for these maudlin ideas is so deep that words have no power to convey it. But come,” said the Preacher in the kindliest tone. “Enough of this. I am pained to see tears in your eyes. Pardon my thoughtlessness. Let us forget now for a little while that you are an idea, and remember only that you are a charming Boston woman of the household of our own faith. Let me call Mrs. Durham, and have you know her and discuss with her the thousand and one things dear to all women’s hearts.” “No, I thank you! I feel a little sore and bruised, and social amenities can have no meaning for those whose souls are on fire with such antagonistic ideas as yours and mine. If Mrs. Durham can give me any sympathy in my work I’ll be delighted to see her, otherwise I must go.” The Preacher laughed aloud. “Then let me beg of you, never meet Mrs. Durham. If you do, the war will break out again. I don’t wish to figure in a case of assault and battery. Mrs. Durham was the owner of fifty slaves. She represents the bluest of the blue blood of the slave-holding aristocracy of the South. She has never surrendered and she never will. Wars, surrenders, constitutional amendments and such little things make no impression on her mind whatever. If you think I am difficult, you had better not puzzle your brain over her. I am a mildly constructive man of progress. She is a Conservative.” “Then we will say good-bye,” said Miss Walker, extending her small plump hand in friendly parting. “I accept your challenge which this interview implies. I will succeed if God lives,” and she set her lips with a snap that spoke volumes. “And I will watch you from afar with sorrow and fear and trembling,” responded the Preacher. CHAPTER VII--THE HEART OF A CHILD MRS. GASTON’S recovery from the brain fever which followed her prostration was slow and painful. For days she would be quite herself as she would sit up in bed and smile at the wistful face of the boy who sat tenderly gazing into her eyes, or with swift feet was running to do her slightest wish.