a good square meal."

The next morning, just after breakfast, there was the sound of
horses' hoofs outside the house, and, looking out, Vincent saw Mr.
Jackson, with a man he knew to be the sheriff, and four or five
others. A minute later one of the servants came in, and said that
the sheriff wished to speak to Mrs. Wingfield.

"I will go out to him," Mrs. Wingfield replied. Vincent followed
her to the door.

"Mrs. Wingfield," the sheriff said, "I am the holder of a warrant; to
search your slave-huts and grounds for a runaway negro named
Anthony Moore, the property of Mr. Jackson here."

"Do you suppose, sir," Mrs. Wingfield asked angrily, "that I am the
sort of person to give shelter to runaway slaves?"

"No, madam, certainly not," the sheriff replied; "no one would
suppose for a moment that Mrs. Wingfield of the Orangery would
have anything to do with a runaway, but Mr. Jackson here learned
only yesterday that the wife of this slave was here, and every one
knows that where the wife is the husband is not likely to be far
off."

"I suppose, sir," Mrs. Wingfield said coldly, "that there was no
necessity for me to acquaint Mr. Jackson formerly with the fact
that I had purchased through my agent the woman he sold to
separate her from her husband."