the panels of the door and overflowed upon the walls. Thousands
of homesteads, aye, hundreds of thousands of homes--millions of
acres--were sold almost for a song--frequently less than a shilling
an acre, generally less than a dollar.

Colonel Desmit had not been an exception to these rules. He had
not paid the obligations maturing during the war simply because he
knew he could not be compelled to do so. Instead of that, he had
invested his surplus in lands, cotton, and naval stores. Now the
evil day was not far off, as he knew, and he had little to meet it.
Nevertheless he made a brave effort. The ruggedness of the disowned
family of Smiths and the chicanery inherited from the gnarly-headed
and subtle-minded old judge came to his rescue, and he determined
not to fail without a fight. He shingled himself with deeds of
trust and sales under fraudulent judgments or friendly liens, to
delay if they did not avert calamity. Then he set himself at work
to effect sales. He soon swallowed his wrath and appealed to the
North--the enemy to whom he owed all his calamities, as he thought.
He sent flaming circulars to bleak New England health-exhibits to
the smitten of consumption, painting the advantages of climate,
soil, and society--did all in his power to induce immigrants to
come and buy, in order that he might beat off poverty and failure
and open disgrace. He made a brave fight, but it had never occurred
to him to sell an acre to a colored man when he was accosted by
Nimbus, who, still wearing some part of his uniform, came, over to
negotiate with him for the purchase of Red Wing.

All these untoward events had not made the master of Knapp-of-Reeds
peculiarly amiable, or kindly disposed toward any whom he deemed
in the remotest manner responsible for his loss. For two classes