At another time he said, as some emigrants passed them in the street,
"What a sense of pride it gives one in one's country, to see her so
stretch out her arms to help and embrace the outcast and suffering of
the whole world!"

She smiled--bitterly, he thought; and replied, "O just and magnanimous
country, to feed and clothe the stranger from without, while she
outrages and destroys her children within!"

"You do not love America," he said.

"I do not love America," she responded.

"And yet it is a wonderful country."

"Ay," briefly, almost satirically, "a wonderful country, indeed!"

"Still you stay here, live here."

"Yes, it is my country. Whatever I think of it, I will not be driven
away from it; it is my right to remain."

"Her right to remain?" he thought; "what does she mean by that? she
speaks as though conscience were involved in the thing. No matter; let
us talk of something pleasanter."

One day she gave him a clew. They were looking at the picture of a
great statesman,--a man as famous for the grandeur of face and form as
for the power and splendor of his intellect.