gree felt the power of a good man when he is wholly in

earnest.

66

But Mr. Ashley soon recovered himself, and remarked, as he arose to go, The trouble is, sir, you think negroes are human and can be treated as human beings, while the scientific fact is that they are more akin to the ape than the man."

The preacher faced Mr. Ashley and looked him squarely in the eye to see whether the lawyer was in real earnest. When he saw the sincere expression on Mr. Ashley's face, his first idea was to laugh outright, but on second thought he remarked quietly, "If I believed that old, exploded theory about the black race I should be compelled to acknowledge that in many cases the brute was superior to the man in every quality that goes to make up real manhood, but such an idea is barbarous and absurd. The negro is made in the image of God and the Gospel of Christ is for him as well as for us."

Not knowing what reply to make, Mr. Ashley led the discomfited committee out of the study.

"Poor men, poor men," said Mr. Durham to himself when he was left alone, "I see now that nothing makes people so blind and narrow as race prejudice. But I cannot condemn them, for I have only escaped myself at the eleventh hour from the damning sin."

While the minister was meditating thus, a loud knock on the front door startled him. He opened it quickly and Nafti Thomas stood before him. The colored youth was greatly agitated and almost gasped as he exclaimed, “I want to see you, Mr. Durham.”

The minister took him by the hand and drew him into the study.

"What is the matter, Nafti? What has happened?"

Instead of answering, the boy bowed his head and the minister saw tears trickling down his dark cheeks. Something clutched the old man's heart and he feared a tragedy had finally come to Nafti's home.

"Tell me what it is, Nafti," he said, anxiously.

"These stories they are telling, how can we stop them?" responded the youth brokenly.

"Stories," exclaimed the minister in amazement," what stories?"

"Haven't you heard, sir?" asked Nafti, looking up in surprise.

"No," said the other, sitting down beside the lad. "Tell me what is on your mind." Then with much embarrassment Nafti told him the stories that were being told around town connecting the names of his sister, Martha, and Mr. Durham. It is not for my sister's sake I am here, sir," said the boy, when he had finished, "for she is only a colored girl, but these stories have been started to injure you because of your kindness to us. What can we do, sir?"

As he began to understand the full import of the stories that were being circulated regarding him, and as he learned from Nafti that many were beginning to credit them as the explanation of the minister's change of views, Mr. Durham had a new revelation of the fearful savagery of racial hate which spares neither virtue nor honor. He remembered how Mr. Ashley had used the word "scandal" in asking for his resignation, a word which had puzzled him then, but which he now understood.

"It is the work of Peter Legree and Mr. Ashley," said the boy. "Mr. Shelby and I traced the stories down to them."

"Legree is the real author of the lies," remarked

the minister at length, restraining his anger with difficulty. "Nothing is safe from his vile touch. I well know he has started these slanders."

"What can we do?" asked Nafti, pathetically. "Poor father is sick with worry."

Mr. Durham paced around the room with restless steps. In his whole life this was the first time that slander had blackened his fair name. He could clearly see the cunning plans of his enemies. He had expected opposition to his new views on the race problem, but he was not prepared for the brutal insults which were being heaped upon him. But Mr. Durham was not a man to be frightened by any opposition whether of men or of demons. When he was opposed to any effort being made to uplift the negro, he was outspoken in his faith and was ready to die for it, if need be. Now that a light, just as amazing to him as to others, had shone into his soul, he took his ground unflinchingly, determined never to

retreat.

"Thank you for coming to me," he said kindly to the colored youth, "but you need have no fear. Tell your father that I shall quickly clear his daughter's name. Her honor is as precious as mine in the sight of God."

Left alone, Mr. Durham tried to reflect calmly on what had happened. He sought to quiet himself, but the more he meditated on Legree's villainy the more his anger grew. His warm Southern nature was roused beyond his control. For long years he had been building up a reputation worthy of a Christian minister. His conduct had always been scrupulously conscientious and in everything he had avoided even "the very appearance of evil." But he could see the auspicious hour which Legree had chosen. He well understood how bitter was the enmity he had aroused in the hearts of some. At

last his brain reeled and his judgment faltered. He rose, almost staggering, and went to his desk, and from a lower drawer he pulled out a long-disused gun.

"It's too much, it's too much," he muttered as he left the house and walked up the street.

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CHAPTER XXIV

A STRANGER IN DOTHAN

GOOD morning, Sambo. Is this Harbison Institute?"

A well-dressed young man, evidently a Northerner, addressed these words to a coal-black negro who was working near the gate of the Institute one morning.

"Dis am Harbison, but dis ain't Sambo," answered the swarthy African.

"What is your name, then?" inquired the young stranger, looking at the son of Ham with a quizzical expression on his face.

"I'se Pete," was the answer. "I'se keep de groun's in ordah. Sambo drives de mules on de farm. He's a learned colo'd gemman."

The negro was evidently an object of interest to the Northerner and he encouraged him to talk further by asking, "How do you know that Sambo is a learned colored gentleman, Pete?"

"Well, boss," answered the negro, slowly, "Sambo knows all dere is to know. Dey young folks at de school caint eber fool Sambo. Dey tried it t'othah day when dey asked him to 'splain de tel'graph."

"And how did Sambo explain the telegraph," the stranger kept on, like the "end" man at a minstrel show.

"Well, boss," began Pete, "when dey asked him to 'splain de tel'graph I'se thinks he sho' floored, but Sambo says, quick-like, 'Sho' Ah can 'splain de tel'graph,' and he sho' did," grinned the negro in conclusion.