The election came, and the result--was what he should have been
wise enough to foresee. Nevertheless, it was a great and grievous
disappointment to Hesden Le Moyne. Not that he cared about a seat
in the Legislature; but it was a demonstration to him that in his
estimate of the people of whom he had been so proud he had erred
upon the side of charity. He had believed them better than they had
shown themselves. The fair future which he had hoped was so near
at hand seemed more remote than ever. His hope for his people and
his State was crushed, and apprehension of unspeakable evil in the
future forced itself upon his heart.
CHAPTER LIX.
THE SHUTTLECOCK OF FATE.
"Marse Hesden, Marse Hesden!" There was a timorous rap upon the
window of Hesden Le Moyne's sleeping-room in the middle of the night,
and, waking, he heard his name called in a low, cautious voice.
"Who is there?" he asked.
"Sh--sh! Don't talk so loud, Marse Hesden. Please come out h'yer
a minnit, won't yer?"
The voice was evidently that of a colored man, and Hesden had no
apprehension or hesitancy in complying with the request. In fact,
his position as a recognized friend of the colored race had made
such appeals to his kindness and protection by no means unusual.
He rose at once, and stepped out upon the porch. He was absent for
a little while, and when he returned his voice was full of emotion
as he said to his wife,
"Mollie, there is a man here who is hungry and weary.
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