Miss Ophelia sat down, and pulled out her knitting-work, and sat there grim with indignation. She knit and knit, but while she mused the fire burned; at last she broke out—"I tell you, Augustine, I can't get over things so, if you can. It's a perfect abomination for you to defend such a system,—that's my mind!" "What now?" said St. Clare, looking up. "At it again, hey?" "I say it's perfectly abominable for you to defend such a system!" said Miss Ophelia, with increasing warmth. "I defend it, my dear lady? Who ever said I did defend it?" said St. Clare. "Of course, you defend it,—you all do,—all you Southerners. What do you have slaves for, if you don't?" "Are you such a sweet innocent as to suppose nobody in this world ever does what they don't think is right? Don't you, or didn't you ever, do anything that you did not think quite right?" "If I do, I repent of it, I hope," said Miss Ophelia, rattling her needles with energy. "So do I," said St. Clare, peeling his orange; "I'm repenting of it all the time." |