magic.

He wondered how Custis' mother could bear the strain of all these
people. He wondered how she could manage the army of black servants who
hung on her word as the deliverance of an oracle. He could hear the hum
of the life of the place already awake with the rising sun. Down in the
ravine behind the house he caught the ring of a hammer on an anvil and
closer in the sweep of a carpenter's plane over a board. A colt was
calling to his mother at the stables and he could hear the chatter and
cries of the stable boys busy with the morning feed.

He rose, stepped gingerly beside the sleepers on the floor and stood by
an open window. His mind was stirring with a curious desire to see the
ghost that haunted this house, its spacious grounds and fields. He,
too, had read _Uncle Tom's Cabin_, and wondered. The ghost must be here
hiding in some dark corner of cabin or field--the ghost of deathless
longing for freedom--the ghost of cruelty--the ghost of the bloodhound,
the lash and the auction block.

Somehow he couldn't realize that such things could be, now that he was
a guest in a Southern home and saw the bright side of their life. Never
had he seen anything brighter than the smiles of those negro musicians
as they proudly touched their instruments: the violin, the banjo, the
flute, the triangle and castanets, and watched the dancers swing through
each number. There could be no mistake about the ring of joy in Sam's
voice. It throbbed with unction. It pulsed with pride. Its joy was
contagious. He caught himself glancing at his rolling eyes and swaying
body. Once he muttered aloud:

"Just look at that fool nigger!"