Morning at Jalna. Mazo de la Roche

in this house.” He put his arm about the little boy’s shoulders and Ernest looked proudly about the table at which all were now seating themselves.

      Adeline poured tea and Lucy Sinclair remarked, “I’ve been admiring those handsome portraits of you and Captain Whiteoak.”

      “In his Hussars’ uniform,” said Adeline. “We had them done just before we sailed for Canada.”

      “In Ireland?” asked Lucy Sinclair.

      Adeline nodded, avoiding Philip’s eyes, but he said firmly, “No. They were painted in London by a very fashionable artist. Do you think they are good likenesses?”

      Both the Sinclairs found the likenesses perfect. They gazed at them in admiration, then Lucy Sinclair said, “It breaks my heart to think what has probably happened to the portraits, going back for four generations, in my old home.”

      “You must not feel discouraged,” said Philip, with his strong, comforting glance. “Things will take a turn for the better.”

      They were now seated at the table. Nicholas said suddenly, addressing the Sinclairs, “In the house where my brother and sister and I have been visiting, they think Mr. Lincoln is a splendid man.”

      “Do they indeed?” Curtis Sinclair said tranquilly.

      “One of their sons is fighting with the Yankees,” continued Nicholas. “They pray for him and Mr. Lincoln. Do you think that is wrong?”

      “Nobody wants to hear your voice,” said Philip sternly. “Eat your bread and butter.”

      Little Ernest spoke up. “Our friend Mr. Busby says Lincoln is a hero.”

      “One word more from either of you,” said their father, “and you go.”

      The small boys subsided but appeared less crushed under the rebuke than did their sister.

      “I hear,” said Adeline Whiteoak, “that the Lincolns know nothing of good manners.”

      “Neither they nor their sons,” said Mrs. Sinclair. “They are an uncouth quartet.”

      “Manners maketh man,” spoke up little Ernest. “That’s in my copy book.”

      “Children,” said their mother, “you may be excused.”

      The three rose, each gave a little bow to the grownups and sedately left the room. Once outdoors they danced across the lawn in their excitement. It was so unusual to have visitors, especially visitors from America.

      “They’re having a civil war,” said Nicholas.

      “Does that mean they’re fighting to be civilized?” asked little Ernest.

      Augusta put an arm about him. “No, little silly,” she said. “They are very elegant and well-mannered, Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair, I mean. But the Yankees won’t let them keep their slaves in peace. So they are at war.”

      “There goes the man slave now,” said Nicholas. “I’m going to speak to him.”

      “No, no,” begged Augusta. “He might not like it.”

      He put aside her restraining hand. Gussie and Ernest remained aloof but Nicholas marched straight to the Negro.

      “You like being in Canada?” he asked.

      “Yaas, suh, it’s fine here,” said the man, his inscrutable eyes looking toward the treetops.

      “Do you like to get away from the war?”

      “Yaas, suh, it’s good to get away from the war,” answered the man.

      Ernest had followed his brother. Now clinging to his arm he asked, in a small voice, “Did you like being a slave?”

      “Yaas, suh, it was fine.”

      “But you’re free, now that you’re in Canada, aren’t you?” persisted Nicholas.

      “I haven’t thought about it,” said the Negro.

      “What is your name?” asked Ernest.

      “Jerry Cram.”

      Augusta called sternly to her brothers, “Boys! You were told not to ask questions. You’ll get into trouble with Mamma. Do leave off and come for a walk.”

      The two boys came reluctantly. They saw the pretty young mulatto housemaid come out of the side door and linger near the Negro.

      “She’s not supposed to talk to him,” said Augusta.

      “How can she help it when she’s in the same house with him?” Nicholas eyed the pair with curiosity.

      “Is that flirting?” asked little Ernest.

      “Wherever did you hear such talk, Ernest?” She took her small brother by the hand and led him firmly away.

      Nicholas said, “I asked Mrs. Sinclair’s lady’s maid.”

      “What is a lady’s maid?” interrupted Ernest.

      “Little silly! A lady’s maid dresses a lady, brushes her hair, sews on her buttons. This Annabelle gives Mrs. Sinclair’s hair one hundred strokes with the brush every night. Have you noticed how her hair glistens? That’s the brushing.”

      “Our mamma’s hair is red,” said Ernest. “She says she is glad none of us got it from her. Why, I wonder.”

      “It’s considered a blemish,” said Augusta.

      “Why?”

      “I don’t know, but I suppose black or brown or golden are better.”

      “Gussie, I heard someone say to Mamma, ‘Your beautiful hair, Mrs. Whiteoak.’”

      “Who said that?”

      “I think it was Mr. Wilmott.”

      “What did Mamma say?” asked Nicholas.

      “She said — ‘You old silly.’”

      “That’s just her way,” said Nicholas. “She didn’t mean it.”

      “Do you think she liked it?” asked Augusta, shocked.

      “Certainly. Women love compliments. When you’re grown up you’ll love them.”

      “Indeed I shan’t.” She looked offended.

      Two manly figures now emerged from the woods that bordered the very paths of the estate, giving it an air of primeval seclusion and grandeur. These were the figures of Elihu Busby, the neighbour in whose house the three children had been visiting. He had been born in Canada and was excessively patriotic, and proud of the fact. Compared with him his neighbours were newcomers and he expected them to look to him for guidance in the affairs of the country. One of his sons was fighting with the army of the North in the American Civil War and of this he was proud. He looked on slavery as an abomination.

      The other manly figure was that of David Vaughan, another neighbour.

      “I hear,” said Busby, “that you have visitors.”

      “Yes,” said Augusta. “They have come for a visit because we are peaceful here.”

      “Do come and meet them, Uncle David,” put in Ernest, tugging at David Vaughan’s sleeve. He was not related to the Whiteoaks but the young ones always addressed him so. “They are nice, Uncle David.”

      But David Vaughan and Elihu Busby showed no inclination to meet the Southerners.

      “You will see little of us while they are in your house,” said Busby. “You know what is our opinion of slavery.”

      Nicholas’s eyes sparkled with mischief. He said:

      “I guess they’ll be staying a long while because they’ve brought three slaves with them.”

      At