The conversation became more exciting, Marston facetiously
attempting to be humorous at the Elder's expense: "It isn't the
pleasure, my dear fellow, it's the contentment. We were all born to
an end; and if that end be to labour through life for others, it
must be right. Everything is right that custom has established
right."

"Marston, give us your hand, my friend. 'Twould do to plead so if we
had no enemies, but enemies are upon us, watching our movements
through partizans' eyes, full of fierceness, and evil to
misconstruct."

"I care not," interrupts Marston. "My slaves are my property-I shall
do with them as it pleases me; no insinuations about morality, or I
shall mark you on an old score. Do you sound? Good Elders should be
good men; but they, as well as planters, have their frailties; it
would not do to tell them all, lest high heaven should cry out."
Marston points his finger, and laughs heartily. "I wish we had seven
lives to live, and they were all as happy as most of our planters
could desire to make them."

The Elder understood the delicate hint, but desiring to avoid
placing himself in an awkward position before the Deacon, began to
change the conversation, criticising the merits of several old
pictures hung upon the walls. They were much valued by Marston, as
mementoes of his ancestry: of this the Elder attempted in vain to
make a point. During this conversation, so disguised in meaning, the
mulatto servant stood at the door waiting Marston's commands. Soon,
wine and refreshments were brought in, and spread out in old