lest he might spring a democratic mine of very illiberal
indignation.

"Come, gentlemen guests, you are as welcome as the showers," says
Marston, in a stentorious voice: "Be seated; you are at home under
my roof. Yes, the hospitality of my plantation is at your service."
The yellow man removes a table that stood in the centre of the room,
places chairs around it, and each takes his seat.

"Pardon me, my dear Marston, you live with the comfort of a nabob.
Wealth seems to spring up on all sides," returns the Deacon,
good-naturedly.

"And so I think," joins the Elder: "the pleasures of the plantation
are manifold, swimming along from day to day; but I fear there is
one thing our friend has not yet considered."

"Pray what is that? Let us hear it; let us hear it. Perhaps it is
the very piety of nonsense," rejoined Marston, quickly. "Dead men
and devils are always haunting us." The Elder draws his spectacles
from his pocket, wipes them with his silk handkerchief, adjusts them
on his nose, and replies with some effort, "The Future."

"Nothing more?" Marston inquires, quaintly: "Never contented; riches
all around us, favourable prospects for the next crop, prices stiff,
markets good, advices from abroad exciting. Let the future take care
of itself; you are like all preachers, Elder, borrowing darkness
when you can't see light."

"The Elder, so full of allegory!" whispers the Deacon. "He means a