“Say two thousand, and we will take the subject under
consideration,” they replied.

“In that case I must increase my demands,” said he.
“I have reason to suspect that my friend the Signor would
like to make a match with Madame Guirlande. If you
will allow her to come back to her business and remain
undisturbed, and will make me a sale of these girls, I don't
care if I do say two thousand.”

“He has told you where they are!” exclaimed Mr.
Bruteman, abruptly; “and let me tell you, if you know
where they are, you are not acting the part of a gentleman.”

“He has not told me, I assure you, nor has he given
me the slightest intimation. It is my firm belief that he
does not know. But I am rather fond of gambling, and
this is such a desperate throw, that it will be all the more
exciting. I never tried my luck at buying slaves running,
and I have rather a fancy for experimenting in that game
of chance. And I confess my curiosity has been so excited
by the wonderful accounts I have heard of those nonpareil
girls, that I should find the pursuit of them a stimulating
occupation. If I should not succeed, I should at least have
the satisfaction of having done a good turn to my old
Italian friend.”

They asked more time to reflect upon it, and to hear
from New York and Boston. With inward maledictions
on their slowness, he departed, resolving in his own mind
that nothing should keep him much longer from Nassau,
come what would.

As he went out, Mr. Chandler remarked: “It's very
much like him. He's always ready to gamble in anything.”

[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]

“After all, I have my suspicion that he's got a clew to
the mystery somehow, and that he expects to find those
handsome wenches,” said Mr. Bruteman. “I'd give a
good deal to baffle him.”

“It seems pretty certain that we cannot obtain any clew,”
rejoined Mr. Ammidon, “and we have already expended
considerable in the effort. If he can be induced to offer
two thousand five hundred, I think we had better accept it.”

After a week's absence in Savannah and its vicinity,
making various arrangements for the reception of the sisters,
Mr. Fitzgerald returned to New Orleans, and took
an early opportunity to inform the creditors that he should
remain a very short time. He made no allusion to his
proposed bargain, and when they alluded to it he affected
great indifference.

“I should be willing to give you five hundred dollars to
release my musical friend,” said he. “But as for those
daughters of Mr. Royal, it seems to me, upon reflection, to
be rather a quixotic undertaking to go in pursuit of them.
You know it's a difficult job to catch a slave after he gets
to the North, if he's as black as the ace of spades; and all
Yankeedom would be up in arms at any attempt to seize
such white ladies. Of course, I could obtain them in no
other way than by courting them and gaining their good-will.”

Mr. Bruteman and Mr. Chandler made some remarks
unfit for repetition, but which were greeted with shouts of
laughter. After much dodging and doubling on the financial
question, Fitzgerald agreed to pay two thousand five
hundred dollars, if all his demands were complied with.
The papers were drawn and signed with all due formality.
He clasped them in his pocket-book, and walked off with an
elastic step, saying, “Now for Nassau!”

CHAPTER VII.

[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]

THE scenery of the South was in the full glory of
June, when Mr. Fitzgerald, Rosa, and Floracita were
floating up the Savannah River in a boat manned by negroes,
who ever and anon waked the stillness of the woods
with snatches of wild melody. They landed on a sequestered
island which ocean and river held in their arms.
Leaving the servants to take care of the luggage, they
strolled along over a carpet of wild-flowers, through winding
bridle-paths, where glances of bright water here and
there gleamed through the dark pines that were singing
their sleepy chorus, with its lulling sound of the sea, and
filling the air with their aromatic breath. Before long,
they saw a gay-colored turban moving among the green
foliage, and the sisters at once exclaimed, “Tulipa!”

“Dear Gerald, you did n't tell us Tulee was here,” said
Rosa.

“I wanted to give you a pleasant surprise,” he replied.

She thanked him with a glance more expressive than
words. Tulipa, meanwhile, was waving a white towel with
joyful energy, and when she came up to them, she half
smothered them with hugs and kisses, exclaiming: “The
Lord bless ye, Missy Rosy! The Lord bless ye, Missy
Flory! It does Tulee's eyes good to see ye agin.” She
eagerly led the way through flowering thickets to a small
lawn, in the midst of which was a pretty white cottage.

It was evident at a glance that she, as well as the master
of the establishment, had done her utmost to make the

[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]

interior of the dwelling resemble their old home as much as
possible. Rosa's piano was there, and on it were a number
of books which their father had given them. As Floracita
pointed to the ottomans their mother had embroidered, and
the boxes and table she had painted, she said: “Our good
friend the Signor sent those. He promised to buy them.”

“He could not buy them, poor man!” answered Fitzgerald,
“for he was in prison at the time of the auction;
but he did not forget to enjoin it upon me to buy them.”

A pleasant hour was spent in joyful surprises over
pretty novelties and cherished souvenirs. Rosa was full
of quiet happiness, and Floracita expressed her satisfaction
in lively little gambols. The sun was going down when
they refreshed themselves with the repast Tulipa had provided.
Unwilling to invite the merciless mosquitoes, they
sat, while the gloaming settled into darkness, playing and
singing melodies associated with other times.

Floracita felt sorry when the hour of separation for the
night came. Everything seemed so fearfully still, except
the monotonous wash of the waves on the sea-shore! And
as far as she could see the landscape by the light of a bright
little moon-sickle, there was nothing but a thick screen of
trees and shrubbery. She groped her way to her sleepingapartment,
expecting to find Tulee there. She had been
there, and had left a little glimmering taper behind a screen,
which threw a fantastic shadow on the ceiling, like a face
with a monstrous nose. It affected the excitable child like
some kind of supernatural presence. She crept to the
window, and through the veil of the mosquito-bar she
dimly saw the same thick wall of greenery. Presently
she espied a strange-looking long face peering out from its
recesses. On their voyage home from Nassau, Gerald had

[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]

sometimes read aloud to them from “The Midsummer
Night's Dream.” Could it be that there were such creatures
in the woods as Shakespeare described? A closet
adjoining her room had been assigned to Tulee. She
opened the door and said, “Tulee, are you there? Why
don't you come?” There was no answer. Again she gave
a timid look at the window. The long face moved, and
a most unearthly sound was heard. Thoroughly frightened,
she ran out, calling, “Tulee! Tulee!” In the darkness,
she ran against her faithful attendant, and the sudden
contact terrified her still more.

“It's only Tulee. What is the matter with my little
one?” said the negress. As she spoke, the fearful sound
was heard again.

“O Tulee, what is that?” she exclaimed, all of a
tremble.

“That is only Jack,” she replied.

“Who's Jack?” quickly asked the nervous little
maiden.

“Why, the jackass, my puppet,” answered Tulee.
“Massa Gerald bought him for you and Missy Rosy to
ride. In hot weather there 's so many snakes about in
the woods, he don't want ye to walk.”

“What does he make that horrid noise for?” asked
Flora, somewhat pacified.

“Because he was born with music in him, like the rest
of ye,” answered Tulee, laughing.

She assisted her darling to undress, arranged her pillows,
and kissed her cheek just as she had kissed it ever since
the rosy little mouth had learned to speak her name. Then
she sat by the bedside talking over things that had happened
since they parted.

[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]

“So you were put up at auction and sold!” exclaimed
Flora. “Poor Tulee! how dreadfully I should have felt
to see you there! But Gerald bought you; and I suppose
you like to belong to him.”

“Ise nothin' to complain of Massa Gerald,” she answered;
“but I'd like better to belong to myself.”

“So you'd like to be free, would you?” asked Flora.

“To be sure I would,” said Tulee. “Ye like it yerself,
don't ye, little missy?”

Then, suddenly recollecting what a narrow escape her
young lady had had from the auction-stand, she hastened
with intuitive delicacy to change the subject. But the
same thought had occurred to Flora; and she fell asleep,
thinking how Tulee's wishes could be gratified.

When morning floated upward out of the arms of night,
in robe of brightest saffron, the aspect of everything was
changed. Floracita sprang out of bed early, eager to explore
the surroundings of their new abode. The little
lawn looked very beautiful, sprinkled all over with a variety
of wild-flowers, in whose small cups dewdrops glistened,
prismatic as opals. The shrubbery was no longer a dismal
mass of darkness, but showed all manner of shadings of
glossy green leaves, which the moisture of the night had
ornamented with shimmering edges of crystal beads. She
found the phantom of the night before browsing among
flowers behind the cottage, and very kindly disposed to
make her acquaintance. As he had a thistle blossom sticking
out of his mouth, she forthwith named him Thistle.
She soon returned to the house with her apron full of vines,
and blossoms, and prettily tinted leaves. “See, Tulee,” said
she, “what a many flowers! I'm going to make haste and
dress the table, before Gerald and Rosa come to breakfast.”

[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]

They took graceful shape under her nimble fingers, and,
feeling happy in her work, she began to hum,

“How brightly breaks the morning!”

“Whisper low!” sang Gerald, stealing up behind her,
and making her start by singing into her very ear; while
Rosa exclaimed, “What a fairy-land you have made here,
with all these flowers, pichoncita mia.”

The day passed pleasantly enough, with some ambling
along the bridle-paths on Thistle's back, some reading
and sleeping, and a good deal of music. The next day,
black Tom came with a barouche, and they took a drive
round the lovely island. The cotton-fields were all abloom
on Gerald's plantation, and his stuccoed villa, with spacious
veranda and high porch, gleamed out in whiteness among
a magnificent growth of trees, and a garden gorgeous with
efflorescence. The only drawback to the pleasure was,
that Gerald charged them to wear thick veils, and never to
raise them when any person was in sight. They made no
complaint, because he told them that he should be deeply
involved in trouble if his participation in their escape should
be discovered; but, happy as Rosa was in reciprocated love,
this necessity of concealment was a skeleton ever sitting at
her feast; and Floracita, who had no romantic compensation
for it, chafed under the restraint. It was dusk when
they returned to the cottage, and the thickets were alive
with fire-flies, as if Queen Mab and all her train were out
dancing in spangles.

A few days after was Rosa's birthday, and Floracita
busied herself in adorning the rooms with flowery festoons.
After breakfast, Gerald placed a small parcel in the hand
of each of the sisters. Rosa's contained her mother's

[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]

diamond ring, and Flora's was her mother's gold watch, in
the back of which was set a small-locket-miniature of her
father. Their gratitude took the form of tears, and the
pleasure-loving young man, who had more taste for gayety
than sentiment, sought to dispel it by lively music. When
he saw the smiles coming again, he bowed playfully, and
said: “This day is yours, dear Rosa. Whatsoever you
wish for, you shall have, if it is attainable.”

“I do wish for one thing,” she replied promptly. “Floracita
has found out that Tulee would like to be free. I
want you to gratify her wish.”

“Tulee is yours,” rejoined he. “I bought her to attend
upon you.”

“She will attend upon me all the same after she is
free,” responded Rosa; “and we should all be happier.”

“I will do it,” he replied. “But I hope you won't
propose to make me free, for I am happier to be your
slave.”

The papers were brought a few days after, and Tulee
felt a great deal richer, though there was no outward
change in her condition.

As the heat increased, mosquitoes in the woods and
sand-flies on the beach rendered the shelter of the house
desirable most of the time. But though Fitzgerald had
usually spent the summer months in travelling, he seemed
perfectly contented to sing and doze and trifle away his
time by Rosa's side, week after week. Floracita did not
find it entertaining to be a third person with a couple
of lovers. She had been used to being a person of consequence
in her little world; and though they were very
kind to her, they often forgot that she was present, and

[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]

never seemed to miss her when she was away. She had
led a very secluded life from her earliest childhood, but she
had never before been so entirely out of sight of houses and
people. During the few weeks she had passed in Nassau,
she had learned to do shell-work with a class of young
girls; and it being the first time she had enjoyed such companionship,
she found it peculiarly agreeable. She longed
to hear their small talk again; she longed to have Rosa to
herself, as in the old times; she longed for her father's caresses,
for Madame Guirlande's brave cheerfulness, for the
Signor's peppery outbursts, which she found very amusing;
and sometimes she thought how pleasant it would be to
hear Florimond say that her name was the prettiest in the
world. She often took out a pressed geranium blossom,
under which was written “Souvenir de Florimond”; and
she thought his name was very pretty too. She sang
Moore's Melodies a great deal; and when she warbled,


“Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest
In thy bosom of shade, with the friend I love best!”
she sighed, and thought to herself, “Ah! if I only had a
friend to love best!” She almost learned “Lalla Rookh”
by heart; and she pictured herself as the Persian princess
listening to a minstrel in Oriental costume, but with a very
German face. It was not that the child was in love, but
her heart was untenanted; and as memories walked through
it, it sounded empty.

Tulee, who was very observing where her affections
were concerned, suspected that she was comparing her
own situation with that of Rosa. One day, when she
found her in dreamy revery, she patted her silky curls,
and said: “Does she feel as if she was laid by, like a fifth

[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]

wheel to a coach? Never mind! My little one will
have a husband herself one of these days.”

Without looking up, she answered, very pensively: “Do
you think I ever shall, Tulee? I don't see how I can, for
I never see anybody.”

Tulipa took the little head between her black hands, and,
raising the pretty face toward her, replied: “Yes, sure,
little missy. Do ye s'pose ye had them handsome eyes
for nothin' but to look at the moon? But come, now, with
me, and feed Thistle. I'm going to give him a pailful
of water. Thistle knows us as well as if he was a Christian.”

Jack Thistle was a great resource for Tulee in her isolation,
and scarcely less so for Flora. She often fed him
from her hand, decorated him with garlands, talked to him,
and ambled about with him in the woods and on the sea-shore.
The visits of black Tom also introduced a little
variety into their life. He went back and forth from Savannah
to procure such articles as were needed at the
cottage, and he always had a budget of gossip for Tulee.
Tom's Chloe was an expert ironer; and as Mr. Fitzgerald
was not so well pleased with Tulee's performances of that
kind, baskets of clothes were often sent to Chloe, who was
ingenious in finding excuses for bringing them back herself.
She was a great singer of Methodist hymns and negro
songs, and had wonderful religious experiences to tell.
To listen to her and Tom was the greatest treat Tulee
had; but as she particularly prided herself on speaking
like white people, she often remarked that she could n't
understand half their “lingo.” Floracita soon learned it
to perfection, and excited many a laugh by her imitations.

Tulee once obtained Rosa's permission to ride back with

[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]

Tom, and spend a couple of hours at his cabin near “the
Grat Hus,” as he called his master's villa. But when Mr.
Fitzgerald heard of it, he interdicted such visits in the future.
He wished to have as little communication as possible
between the plantation and the lonely cottage; and if
he had overheard some of the confidences between Chloe
and Tulee, he probably would have been confirmed in the
wisdom of such a prohibition. But Tom was a factotum
that could not be dispensed with. They relied upon him
for provisions, letters, and newspapers.

Three or four weeks after their arrival he brought a box
containing a long letter from Madame Guirlande, and the
various articles she had saved for the orphans from the
wreck of their early home. Not long afterward another
letter came, announcing the marriage of Madame and the
Signor. Answering these letters and preparing bridal
presents for their old friends gave them busy days. Gerald
sometimes ordered new music and new novels from
New York, and their arrival caused great excitement.
Floracita's natural taste for drawing had been cultivated
by private lessons from a French lady, and she now used
the pretty accomplishment to make likenesses of Thistle
with and without garlands, of Tulee in her bright turban,
and of Madame Guirlande's parrot, inscribed, “Bon jour,
jolie Manon!”

One day Rosa said: “As soon as the heat abates, so that
we can use our needles without rusting, we will do a good
deal of embroidery, and give it to Madame. She sells such
articles, you know; and we can make beautiful things of
those flosses and chenilles the good soul saved for us.”

“I like that idea,” replied Flora. “I've been wanting
to do something to show our gratitude.”

[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]

There was wisdom as well as kindness in the plan,
though they never thought of the wisdom. Hours were
whiled away by the occupation, which not only kept their
needles from rusting, but also their affections and artistic
faculties.

As the tide of time flowed on, varied only by these little
eddies and ripples, Gerald, though always very loving with
Rosa, became somewhat less exclusive. His attentions
were more equally divided between the sisters. He often
occupied himself with Floracita's work, and would pick
out the shades of silk for her, as well as for Rosa. He
more frequently called upon her to sing a solo, as well as
to join in duets and trios. When the weather became
cooler, it was a favorite recreation with him to lounge at
his ease, while Rosa played, and Floracita's fairy figure
floated through the evolutions of some graceful dance.
Sometimes he would laugh, and say: “Am I not a lucky
dog? I don't envy the Grand Bashaw his Circassian
beauties. He 'd give his biggest diamond for such a
dancer as Floracita; and what is his Flower of the World
compared to my Rosamunda?”

Floracita, whose warm heart always met affection as
swiftly as one drop of quicksilver runs to another, became
almost as much attached to him as she was to Rosa. “How
kind Gerald is to me!” she would say to Tulee. “Papa
used to wish we had a brother; but I did n't care for one
then, because he was just as good for a playmate. But
now it is pleasant to have a brother.”

To Rosa, also, it was gratifying to have his love for her
overflow upon what was dearest to her; and she would
give him one of her sweetest smiles when he called her
sister “Mignonne” or “Querida.” To both of them the

[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]

lonely island came to seem like a happy home. Floracita
was not so wildly frolicsome as she was before those stunning
blows fell upon her young life; but the natural buoyancy
of her spirits began to return. She was always
amusing them with “quips and cranks.” If she was out
of doors, her return to the house would be signalized by
imitations of all sorts of birds or musical instruments; and
often, when Gerald invited her to “trip it on the light, fantastic
toe,” she would entertain him with one of the negroes'
clumsy, shuffling dances. Her sentimental songs fell
into disuse, and were replaced by livelier tunes. Instead
of longing to rest in the “sweet vale of Avoca,” she was
heard musically chasing “Figaro here! Figaro there!
Figaro everywhere!”

Seven months passed without other material changes
than the changing seasons. When the flowers faded, and
the leafless cypress-trees were hung with their pretty pendulous
seed-vessels, Gerald began to make longer visits to
Savannah. He was, however, rarely gone more than a
week; and, though Rosa's songs grew plaintive in his absence,
her spirits rose at once when he came to tell how
homesick he had been. As for Floracita, she felt compensated
for the increased stillness by the privilege of having
Rosa all to herself.

One day in January, when he had been gone from home
several days, she invited Rosa to a walk, and, finding her
desirous to finish a letter to Madame Guirlande, she threw
on her straw hat, and went out half dancing, as she was
wont to do. The fresh air was exhilarating, the birds were
singing, and the woods were already beautified with every
shade of glossy green, enlivened by vivid buds and leaflets
of reddish brown. She gathered here and there a pretty

[figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]

sprig, sometimes placing them in her hair, sometimes in
her little black silk apron, coquettishly decorated with cherry-colored
ribbons. She stopped before a luxuriant wild
myrtle, pulling at the branches, while she sang,


“When the little hollow drum beats to bed,
When the little fifer hangs his head,
When is mute the Moorish flute—”
Her song was suddenly interrupted by a clasp round the
waist, and a warm kiss on the lips.

“O Gerald, you 've come back!” she exclaimed. “How
glad Rosa will be!”

“And nobody else will be glad, I suppose?” rejoined
he. “Won't you give me back my kiss, when I've been
gone a whole week?”

“Certainly, mon bon frère,” she replied; and as he inclined
his face toward her, she imprinted a slight kiss on
his cheek.

“That's not giving me back my kiss,” said he. “I
kissed your mouth, and you must kiss mine.”

“I will if you wish it,” she replied, suiting the action to
the word. “But you need n't hold me so tight,” she
added, as she tried to extricate herself. Finding he did
not release her, she looked up wonderingly in his face, then
lowered her eyes, blushing crimson. No one had ever
looked at her so before.

“Come, don't be coy, ma petite,” said he.

She slipped from him with sudden agility, and said somewhat
sharply: “Gerald, I don't want to be always called
petite; and I don't want to be treated as if I were a child.
I am no longer a child. I am fifteen. I am a young lady.”

“So you are, and a very charming one,” rejoined he,
giving her a playful tap on the cheek as he spoke.

[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]

“I am going to tell Rosa you have come,” said she; and
she started on the run.

When they were all together in the cottage she tried not
to seem constrained; but she succeeded so ill that Rosa
would have noticed it if she had not been so absorbed in
her own happiness. Gerald was all affection to her, and
full of playful raillery with Flora, — which, however, failed
to animate her as usual.

From that time a change came over the little maiden,
and increased as the days passed on. She spent much of
her time in her own room; and when Rosa inquired why
she deserted them so, she execused herself by saying she
wanted to do a great deal of shell-work for Madame Guirlande,
and that she needed so many boxes they would be
in the way in the sitting-room. Her passion for that work
grew wonderfully, and might be accounted for by the fascination
of perfect success; for her coronets and garlands
and bouquets and baskets were arranged with so much
lightness and elegance, and the different-colored shells were
so tastefully combined, that they looked less like manufactured
articles than like flowers that grew in the gardens of
the Nereids.

Tulee wondered why her vivacious little pet had all of a
sudden become so sedentary in her habits, — why she never
took her customary rambles except when Mr. Fitzgerald
was gone, and even then never without her sister. The
conjecture she formed was not very far amiss, for Chloe's
gossip had made her better acquainted with the character
of her master than were the other inmates of the cottage;
but the extraordinary industry was a mystery to her. One
evening, when she found Floracita alone in her room at
dusk, leaning her head on her hand and gazing out of the

[figure description] Page 088.[end figure description]

window dreamily, she put her hand on the silky head and
said, “Is my little one homesick?”

“I have no home to be sick for,” she replied, sadly.

“Is she lovesick then?”

“I have no lover,” she replied, in the same desponding
tone.

“What is it, then, my pet? Tell Tulee.”

“I wish I could go to Madame Guirlande,” responded
Flora. “She was so kind to us in our first troubles.”

“It would do you good to make her a visit,” said Tulee,
“and I should think you might manage to do it somehow.”

“No. Gerald said, a good while ago, that it would be
dangerous for us ever to go to New Orleans.”

“Does he expect to keep you here always?” asked Tulee.
“He might just as well keep you in a prison, little bird.”

“O, what's the use of talking, Tulee!” exclaimed she,
impatiently. “I have no friends to go to, and I must stay
here.” But, reproaching herself for rejecting the sympathy
so tenderly offered, she rose and kissed the black cheek
as she added, “Good Tulee! kind Tulee! I am a little
homesick; but I shall feel better in the morning.”

The next afternoon Gerald and Rosa invited her to join
them in a drive round the island. She declined, saying
the box that was soon to be sent to Madame was not quite
full, and she wanted to finish some more articles to put in
it. But she felt a longing for the fresh air, and the intense
blue glory of the sky made the house seem prison-like. As
soon as they were gone, she took down her straw hat and
passed out, swinging it by the strings. She stopped on the
lawn to gather some flame-colored buds from a Pyrus Japonica,
and, fastening them in the ribbons as she went, she
walked toward her old familiar haunts in the woods.

[figure description] Page 089.[end figure description]

It was early in February, but the warm sunshine brought
out a delicious aroma from the firs, and golden garlands of
the wild jasmine, fragrant as heliotrope, were winding
round the evergreen thickets, and swinging in flowery festoons
from the trees. Melancholy as she felt when she
started from the cottage, her elastic nature was incapable
of resisting the glory of the sky, the beauty of the earth,
the music of the birds, and the invigorating breath of the
ocean, intensified as they all were by a joyful sense of
security and freedom, growing out of the constraint that
had lately been put upon her movements. She tripped
along faster, carolling as she went an old-fashioned song
that her father used to be often humming:—


“Begone, dull care!
I prithee begone from me!
Begone, dull care!
Thou and I shall never agree!”
The walk changed to hopping and dancing, as she warbled
various snatches from ballets and operas, settling at last
upon the quaint little melody, “Once on a time there was
a king,” and running it through successive variations.

A very gentle and refined voice, from behind a clump
of evergreens, said, “Is this Cinderella coming from the
ball?”

She looked up with quick surprise, and recognized a
lady she had several times seen in Nassau.

“And it is really you, Señorita Gonsalez!” said the lady.
“I thought I knew your voice. But I little dreamed of
meeting you here. I have thought of you many times
since I parted from you at Madame Conquilla's store of
shell-work. I am delighted to see you again.”

“And I am glad to see you again, Mrs. Delano,” replied

[figure description] Page 090.[end figure description]

Flora; “and I am very much pleased that you remember
me.”

“How could I help remembering you?” asked the lady.
“You were a favorite with me from the first time I saw
you, and I should like very much to renew our acquaintance.
Where do you live, my dear?”

Covered with crimson confusion, Flora stammered out:
“I don't live anywhere, I'm only staying here. Perhaps I
shall meet you again in the woods or on the beach. I hope
I shall.”

“Excuse me,” said the lady. “I have no wish to intrude
upon your privacy. But if you would like to call
upon me at Mr. Welby's plantation, where I shall be for
three or four weeks, I shall always be glad to receive you.”

“Thank you,” replied Flora, still struggling with embarrassment.
“I should like to come very much, but I don't
have a great deal of time for visiting.”

“It's not common to have such a pressure of cares and
duties at your age,” responded the lady, smiling. “My
carriage is waiting on the beach. Trusting you will find
a few minutes to spare for me, I will not say adieu, but
au revoir.”

As she turned away, she thought to herself: “What a
fascinating child! What a charmingly unsophisticated way
she took to tell me she would rather not have me call on
her! I observed there seemed to be some mystery about
her when she was in Nassau. What can it be? Nothing
wrong, I hope.”

Floracita descended to the beach and gazed after the
carriage as long as she could see it. Her thoughts were
so occupied with this unexpected interview, that she took
no notice of the golden drops which the declining sun was

[figure description] Page 091.[end figure description]

showering on an endless procession of pearl-crested waves;
nor did she cast one of her customary loving glances at the
western sky, where masses of violet clouds, with edges of
resplendent gold, enclosed lakes of translucent beryl, in
which little rose-colored islands were floating. She retraced
her steps to the woods, almost crying. “How
strange my answers must appear to her!” murmured she.
“How I do wish I could go about openly, like other people!
I am so tired of all this concealment!” She neither
jumped, nor danced, nor sung, on her way homeward.
She seemed to be revolving something in her mind
very busily.

After tea, as she and Rosa were sitting alone in the twilight,
her sister, observing that she was unusually silent,
said, “What are you thinking of, Mignonne?”

“I am thinking of the time we passed in Nassau,” replied
she, “and of that Yankee lady who seemed to take
such a fancy to me when she came to Madame Conquilla's
to look at the shell-work.

“I remember your talking about her,” rejoined Rosa.
“You thought her beautiful.”

“Yes,” said Floracita, “and it was a peculiar sort of
beauty. She was n't the least like you or Mamita. Everything
about her was violet. Her large gray eyes sometimes
had a violet light in them. Her hair was not exactly
flaxen, it looked like ashes of violets. She always wore
fragrant violets. Her ribbons and dresses were of some
shade of violet; and her breastpin was an amethyst set with
pearls. Something in her ways, too, made me think of a
violet. I think she knew it, and that was the reason she
always wore that color. How delicate she was! She must
have been very beautiful when she was young.”

[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]

“You used to call her the Java sparrow,” said Rosa.

“Yes, she made me think of my little Java sparrow,
with pale fawn-colored feathers, and little gleams of violet
on the neck,” responded Flora.

“That lady seems to have made a great impression on
your imagination,” said Rosa; and Floracita explained
that it was because she had never seen anything like her.
She did not mention that she had seen that lady on the
island. The open-hearted child was learning to be reticent.

A few minutes afterward, Rosa exclaimed, “There's
Gerald coming!” Her sister watched her as she ran out
to meet him, and sighed, “Poor Rosa!”

CHAPTER VIII.

[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]

A WEEK later, when Gerald had gone to Savannah
and Rosa was taking her daily siesta, Floracita filled
Thistle's panniers with several little pasteboard boxes, and,
without saying anything to Tulee, mounted and rode off in
a direction she had never taken, except in the barouche.
She was in search of the Welby plantation.

Mrs. Delano, who was busy with her crochet-needle
near the open window, was surprised to see a light little figure
seated on a donkey riding up the avenue. As soon as
Floracita dismounted, she recognized her, and descended
the steps of the piazza to welcome her.

“So you have found the Welby plantation,” said she.
“I thought you would n't have much difficulty, for there
are only two plantations on the island, this and Mr. Fitzgerald's.
I don't know that there are any other dwellings
except the huts of the negroes.” She spoke the last rather
in a tone of inquiry; but Flora merely answered that she
had once passed the Welby plantation in a barouche.

As the lady led the way into the parlor, she said, “What
is that you have in your hand, my dear?”

“You used to admire Madame Conquilla's shell-work,”
replied Flora, “and I have brought you some of mine, to
see whether you think I succeed tolerably in my imitations.”
As she spoke, she took out a small basket and
poised it on her finger.

“Why, that is perfectly beautiful!” said Mrs. Delano.
“I don't know how you could contrive to give it such an

[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]

air of lightness and grace. I used to think shell-work
heavy, and rather vulgar, till I saw those beautiful productions
at Nassau. But you excel your teacher, my dear
Miss Gonsalez. I should think the sea-fairies made this.”

Four or five other articles were brought forth from the
boxes and examined with similar commendation. Then
they fell into a pleasant chat about their reminiscences of
Nassau; and diverged from that to speak of the loveliness
of their lonely little island, and the increasing beauty of the
season. After a while, Flora looked at her watch, and
said, “I must not stay long, for I did n't tell anybody I
was going away.”

Mrs. Delano, who caught a glimpse of the medallion inserted
in the back, said: “That is a peculiar little watch.
Have you the hair of some friend set in it?”

“No,” replied Flora. “It is the likeness of my father.”
She slipped the slight chain from her neck, and placed the
watch in the lady's hand. Her face flushed as she looked
at it, but the habitual paleness soon returned.

“You were introduced to me as a Spanish young lady,”
said she, “but this face is not Spanish. What was your
father's name?”

“Mr. Alfred Royal of New Orleans,” answered Flora.

“But your name is Gonsalez,” said she.

Flora blushed crimson with the consciousness of having
betrayed the incognito assumed at Nassau. “Gonsalez
was my mother's name,” she replied, gazing on the floor
while she spoke.

Mrs. Delano looked at her for an instant, then, drawing
her gently toward her, she pressed her to her side, and
said with a sigh, “Ah, Flora, I wish you were my
daughter.”

[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]

“O, how I wish I was!” exclaimed the young girl,
looking up with a sudden glow; but a shadow immediately
clouded her expressive face, as she added, “But you
would n't want me for a daughter, if you knew everything
about me.”

The lady was obviously troubled. “You seem to be surrounded
by mysteries, my little friend,” responded she. “I
will not ask you for any confidence you are unwilling to
bestow. But I am a good deal older than you, and I know
the world better than you do. If anything troubles you, or
if you are doing anything wrong, perhaps if you were to
tell me, I could help you out of it.”

“O, no, I'm not doing anything wrong,” replied Floracita,
eagerly. “I never did anything wrong in my life.”
Seeing a slight smile hovering about the lady's lips, she
made haste to add: “I did n't mean exactly that. I mean
I never did anything very wrong. I'm cross sometimes,
and I have told some fibititas; but then I could n't seem
to help it, things were in such a tangle. It comes more
natural to me to tell the truth.”

“That I can readily believe,” rejoined Mrs. Delano.
“But I am not trying to entrap your ingenuousness into a
betrayal of your secrets. Only remember one thing; if
you ever do want to open your heart to any one, remember
that I am your true friend, and that you can trust me.”

“O, thank you! thank you!” exclaimed Flora, seizing
her hand and kissing it fervently.

“But tell me one thing, my little friend,” continued
Mrs. Delano. “Is there anything I can do for you now?”

“I came to ask you to do something for me,” replied
Flora; “but you have been so kind to me, that it has made
me almost forget my errand. I have very particular

[figure description] Page 096.[end figure description]

reasons for wanting to earn some money. You used to admire
the shell-work in Nassau so much, that I thought, if
you liked mine, you might be willing to buy it, and that
perhaps you might have friends who would buy some. i
have tried every way to think how I could manage to sell
my work.”

“I will gladly buy all you have,” rejoined the lady,
“and I should like to have you make me some more;
especially of these garlands of rice-shells, trembling so
lightly on almost invisible silver wire.”

“I will make some immediately,” replied Flora. “But
I must go, dear Mrs. Delano. I wish I could stay longer,
but I cannot.”

“When will you come again?” asked the lady.

“I can't tell,” responded Flora, “for I have to manage
to come here.”

“That seems strange,” said Mrs. Delano.

“I know it seems strange,” answered the young girl,
with a kind of despairing impatience in her tone. “But
please don't ask me, for everything seems to come right out
to you; and I don't know what I ought to say, indeed I don't.”

“I want you to come again as soon as you can,” said
Mrs. Delano, slipping a gold eagle into her hand. “And
now go, my dear, before you tell me more than you wish
to.”

“Not more than I wish,” rejoined Floracita; “but more
than I ought. I wish to tell you everything.”

In a childish way she put up her lips for a kiss, and the
lady drew her to her heart and caressed her tenderly.

When Flora had descended the steps of the piazza, she
turned and looked up. Mrs. Delano was leaning against one
of the pillars, watching her departure. Vines of gossamer

[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]

lightness were waving round her, and her pearly complexion
and violet-tinted dress looked lovely among those aerial
arabesques of delicate green. The picture impressed Flora
all the more because it was such a contrast to the warm
and gorgeous styles of beauty to which she had been accustomed.
She smiled and kissed her hand in token of
farewell; the lady returned the salutation, but she thought
the expression of her face was sad, and the fear that this
new friend distrusted her on account of unexplained mysteries
haunted her on her way homeward.

Mrs. Delano looked after her till she and her donkey
disappeared among the trees in the distance. “What a
strange mystery is this!” murmured she. “Alfred Royal's
child, and yet she bears her mother's name. And why does
she conceal from me where she lives? Surely, she cannot
be consciously doing anything wrong, for I never saw such
perfect artlessness of look and manner.” The problem occupied
her thoughts for days after, without her arriving at
any satisfactory conjecture.

Flora, on her part, was troubled concerning the distrust
which she felt must be excited by her mysterious position,
and she was continually revolving plans to clear herself from
suspicion in the eyes of her new friend. It would have
been an inexpressible consolation if she could have told
her troubles to her elder sister, from whom she had never
concealed anything till within the last few weeks. But,
alas! by the fault of another, a barrier had arisen between
them, which proved an obstruction at every turn of their daily
intercourse; for while she had been compelled to despise
and dislike Gerald, Rosa was always eulogizing his noble
and loving nature, and was extremely particular to have his
slightest wishes obeyed. Apart from any secret reasons for

[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]

wishing to obtain money, Floracita was well aware that
it would not do to confess her visit to Mrs. Delano; for
Gerald had not only forbidden their making any acquaintances,
but he had also charged them not to ride or walk in
the direction of either of the plantations unless he was with
them.

Day after day, as Flora sat at work upon the garlands
she had promised, she was on the watch to elude his vigilance;
but more than a week passed without her finding
any safe opportunity. At last Gerald proposed to gratify
Rosa's often-expressed wish, by taking a sail to one of the
neighboring islands. They intended to make a picnic of
it, and return by moonlight. Rosa was full of pleasant anticipations,
which, however, were greatly damped when her
sister expressed a decided preference for staying at home.
Rosa entreated, and Gerald became angry, but she persisted
in her refusal. She said she wanted to use up all her
shells, and all her flosses and chenilles. Gerald swore
that he hated the sight of them, and that he would throw
them all into the sea if she went on wearing her beautiful
eyes out over them. Without looking up from her work,
she coolly answered, “Why need you concern yourself about
my eyes, when you have a wife with such beautiful eyes?”

Black Tom and Chloe and the boat were in waiting, and
after a flurried scene they departed reluctantly without her.

“I never saw any one so changed as she is,” said Rosa.
“She used to be so fond of excursions, and now she wants
to work from morning till night.”

“She's a perverse, self-willed, capricious little puss.
She's been too much indulged. She needs to be brought
under discipline,” said Gerald, angrily whipping off a blossom
with his rattan as they walked toward the boat.

[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]

As soon as they were fairly off, Flora started on a second
visit to the Welby plantation. Tulee noticed all this
in silence, and shook her head, as if thoughts were brooding
there unsafe for utterance.

Mrs. Delano was bending over her writing-desk finishing
a letter, when she perceived a wave of fragrance, and,
looking up, she saw Flora on the threshold of the open
door, with her arms full of flowers.

“Excuse me for interrupting you,” said she, dropping
one of her little quick courtesies, which seemed half frolic,
half politeness. “The woods are charming to-day. The
trees are hung with curtains of jasmine, embroidered all
over with golden flowers. You love perfumes so well, I
could n't help stopping by the way to load Thistle with an
armful of them.”

“Thank you, dear,” replied Mrs. Delano. “I rode out
yesterday afternoon, and I thought I had never seen anything
so beautiful as the flowery woods and the gorgeous
sunset. After being accustomed to the splendor of these
Southern skies, the Northern atmosphere will seem cold
and dull.”

“Shall you go to the North soon?” inquired Flora,
anxiously.

“I shall leave here in ten or twelve days,” she replied;
“but I may wait a short time in Savannah, till March has
gone; for that is a blustering, disagreeable month in New
England, though it brings you roses and perfume. I
came to Savannah to spend the winter with my friends,
Mr. and Mrs. Welby; but I have always taken a great
fancy to this island, and when they were suddenly called
away to Arkansas by the illness of a son, I asked their
permission to come here for a few weeks and watch the

[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]

beautiful opening of the spring. I find myself much inclined
to solitude since I lost a darling daughter, who died
two years ago. If she had lived, she would have been
about your age.”

“I am so sorry you are going away,” said Flora. “It
seems as if I had always known you. I don't know what
I shall do without you. But when you go back among
your friends, I suppose you will forget all about poor little
me.”

“No, my dear little friend, I shall never forget you,”
she replied; “and when I come again, I hope I shall find
you here.”

“I felt troubled when I went away the other day,” said
Flora. “I thought you seemed to look sadly after me, and
I was afraid you thought I had done something wicked,
because I said you would n't wish I were your daughter if
you knew everything about me. So I have come to tell
you my secrets, as far as I can without betraying other
people's. I am afraid you won't care anything more about
me after I have told you; but I can't help it if you don't.
Even that would be better than to have you suspect me of
being bad.”

Mrs. Delano drew an ottoman toward her, and said,
“Come and sit here, dear, and tell me all about it, the
same as if I were your mother.”

Floracita complied; and resting one elbow on her knee,
and leaning her cheek upon the hand, she looked up timidly
and wistfully into the friendly face that was smiling
serenely over her. After a moment's pause, she said
abruptly: “I don't know how to begin, so I won't begin
at all, but tell it right out. You see, dear Mrs. Delano, I
am a colored girl.”

[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]

The lady's smile came nearer to a laugh than was usual
with her. She touched the pretty dimpled cheek with her
jewelled finger, as she replied: “O, you mischievous little
kitten! I thought you were really going to tell me something
about your troubles. But I see you are hoaxing me.
I remember when you were at Madame Conquilla's you always
seemed to be full of fun, and the young ladies there
said you were a great rogue.”

“But this is not fun; indeed it is not,” rejoined Flora.
“I am a colored girl.”

She spoke so earnestly that the lady began to doubt the
evidence of her own eyes. “But you told me that Mr.
Alfred Royal was your father,” said she.

“So he was my father,” replied Flora; “and the kindest
father that ever was. Rosa and I were brought up like
little princesses, and we never knew that we were colored.
My mother was the daughter of a rich Spanish gentleman
named Gonsalez. She was educated in Paris, and was
elegant and accomplished. She was handsomer than Rosa;
and if you were to see Rosa, you would say nobody could
be handsomer than she is. She was good, too. My father
was always saying she was the dearest and best wife in the
world. You don't know how he mourned when she died.
He could n't bear to have anything moved that she had
touched. But cher papa died very suddenly; and first
they told us that we were very poor, and must earn our
living; and then they told us that our mother was a slave,
and so, according to law, we were slaves too. They would
have sold us at auction, if a gentleman who knew us when
papa was alive had n't smuggled us away privately to
Nassau. He had been very much in love with Rosa for
a good while; and he married her, and I live with them.

[figure description] Page 102.[end figure description]

But he keeps us very much hidden; because, he says, he
should get into lawsuits and duels and all sorts of troubles
with papa's creditors if they should find out that he helped
us off. And that was the reason I was called Señorita Gonsalez
in Nassau, though my real name is Flora Royal.”

She went on to recount the kindness of Madame Guirlande,
and the exciting particulars of their escape; to all of
which Mrs. Delano listened with absorbed attention. As
they sat thus, they made a beautiful picture. The lady,
mature in years, but scarcely showing the touch of time,
was almost as fair as an Albiness, with serene lips, and a
soft moonlight expression in her eyes. Every attitude and
every motion indicated quietude and refinement. The
young girl, on the contrary, even when reclining, seemed
like impetuosity in repose for a moment, but just ready to
spring. Her large dark eyes laughed and flashed and
wept by turns, and her warmly tinted face glowed like the
sunlight, in its setting of glossy black hair. The lady
looked down upon her with undisguised admiration while
she recounted their adventures in lively dramatic style,
throwing in imitations of the whistling of Ça ira, and the
tones of the coachman as he sang, “Who goes there?”

“But you have not told me,” said Mrs. Delano, “who
the gentleman was that married your sister. Ah, I see
you hesitate. No matter. Only tell me one thing, — is he
kind to you?”

Flora turned red and pale, and red again.

“Let that pass, too,” said the lady. “I asked because
I wished to know if I could help you in any way. I see
you have brought some more boxes of shell-work, and by
and by we will examine them. But first I want to tell
you that I also have a secret, and I will confide it to you

[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]

that you may feel assured I shall love you always. Flora,
dear, when your father and I were young, we were in love
with each other, and I promised to be his wife.”

“So you might have been my Mamita!” exclaimed Floracita,
impetuously.

“No, not your Mamita, dear,” replied Mrs. Delano, smiling.
“You call me the Java sparrow, and Java sparrows
never hatch gay little humming-birds or tuneful mocking-birds.
I might tell you a long story about myself, dear;
but the sun is declining, and you ought not to be out after
dusk. My father was angry about our love, because Alfred
was then only a clerk with a small salary. They carried
me off to Europe, and for two years I could hear nothing
from Alfred. Then they told me he was married; and after
a while they persuaded me to marry Mr. Delano. I ought
not to have married him, because my heart was not in it.
He died and left me with a large fortune and the little
daughter I told you of. I have felt very much alone since
my darling was taken from me. That void in my heart
renders young girls very interesting to me. Your looks
and ways attracted me when I first met you; and when
you told me Alfred Royal was your father, I longed to
clasp you to my heart. And now you know, my dear
child, that you have a friend ever ready to listen to any
troubles you may choose to confide, and desirous to remove
them if she can.”

She rose to open the boxes of shell-work; but Flora
sprung up, and threw herself into her arms, saying, “My
Papasito sent you to me, — I know he did.”

After a few moments spent in silent emotion, Mrs.
Delano again spoke of the approaching twilight, and with
mutual caresses they bade each other adieu.

[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]

Four or five days later, Floracita made her appearance
at the Welby plantation in a state of great excitement.
She was in a nervous tremor, and her eyelids were swollen
as if with much weeping. Mrs. Delano hastened to enfold
her in her arms, saying: “What is it, my child? Tell
your new Mamita what it is that troubles you so.”

“O, may I call you Mamita?” asked Flora, looking up
with an expression of grateful love that warmed all the
fibres of her friend's heart. “O, I do so need a Mamita!
I am very wretched; and if you don't help me, I don't
know what I shall do!”

“Certainly, I will help you, if possible, when you have
told me your trouble,” replied Mrs. Delano.

“Yes, I will tell,” said Flora, sighing. “Mr. Fitzgerald
is the gentleman who married my sister; but we don't live
at his plantation. We live in a small cottage hidden away
in the woods. You never saw anybody so much in love
as he was with Rosa. When we first came here, he was
never willing to have her out of his sight a moment. And
Rosa loves him so! But for these eight or ten weeks past
he has been making love to me; though he is just as affectionate
as ever with Rosa. When she is playing to him,
and I am singing beside her, he keeps throwing kisses to
me behind her back. It makes me feel so ashamed that I
can't look my sister in the face. I have tried to keep out
of his way. When I am in the house I stick to Rosa like
a burr; and I have given up riding or walking, except
when he is away. But there's no telling when he is away.
He went away yesterday, and said he was going to Savannah
to be gone a week; but this morning, when I went
into the woods behind the cottage to feed Thistle, he was
lurking there. He seized me, and held his hand over my

[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]

mouth, and said I should hear him. Then he told me that
Rosa and I were his slaves; that he bought us of papa's
creditors, and could sell us any day. And he says he will
carry me off to Savannah and sell me if I don't treat him
better. He would not let me go till I promised to meet
him in Cypress Grove at dusk to-night. I have been trying
to earn money to go to Madame Guirlande, and get
her to send me somewhere where I could give dancing-lessons,
or singing-lessons, without being in danger of being
taken up for a slave. But I don't know how to get to
New Orleans alone; and if I am his slave, I am afraid he
will come there with officers to take me. So, dear new
Mamita, I have come to you, to see if you can't help me to
get some money and go somewhere.”

Mrs. Delano pressed her gently to her heart, and responded
in tones of tenderest pity: “Get some money and
go somewhere, you poor child! Do you think I shall let
dear Alfred's little daughter go wandering alone about the
world? No, darling, you shall live with me, and be my
daughter.”

“And don't you care about my being colored and a
slave?” asked Floracita, humbly.

“Let us never speak of that,” replied her friend. “The
whole transaction is so odious and wicked that I can't
bear to think of it.”

“I do feel so grateful to you, my dear new Mamita, that
I don't know what to say. But it tears my heart in two
to leave Rosa. We have never been separated for a day
since I was born. And she is so good, and she loves me
so! And Tulee, too. I did n't dare to try to speak to
her. I knew I should break down. All the way coming
here I was frightened for fear Gerald would overtake me

[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]

and carry me off. And I cried so, thinking about Rosa
and Tulee, not knowing when I should see them again,
that I could n't see; and if Thistle had n't known the way
himself, I should n't have got here. Poor Thistle! It
seemed as if my heart would break when I threw the
bridle on his neck and left him to go back alone; I did n't
dare to hug him but once, I was so afraid. O, I am so
glad that you will let me stay here!”

“I have been thinking it will not be prudent for you to
stay here, my child,” replied Mrs. Delano. “Search will
be made for you in the morning, and you had better be out
of the way before that. There are some dresses belonging
to Mrs. Welby's daughter in a closet up stairs. I will
borrow one of them for you to wear. The boat from Beaufort
to Savannah will stop here in an hour to take some
freight. We will go to Savannah. My colored laundress
there has a chamber above her wash-room where you will
be better concealed than in more genteel lodgings. I will
come back here to arrange things, and in a few days I will
return to you and take you to my Northern home.”

The necessary arrangements were soon made; and when
Flora was transformed into Miss Welby, she smiled very
faintly as she remarked, “How queer it seems to be always
running away.”

“This is the last time, my child,” replied Mrs. Delano.
“I will keep my little bird carefully under my wings.”

When Flora was in the boat, hand in hand with her new
friend, and no one visible whom she had ever seen before,
her excitement began to subside, but sadness increased.
In her terror the poor child had scarcely thought of anything
except the necessity of escaping somewhere. But
when she saw her island home receding from her, she began
to realize the importance of the step she was taking.

[figure description] Page 107.[end figure description]

She fixed her gaze on that part where the lonely cottage
was embowered, and she had a longing to see even a little
whiff of smoke from Tulee's kitchen. But there was no
sign of life save a large turkey-buzzard, like a black vulture,
sailing gracefully over the tree-tops. The beloved
sister, the faithful servant, the brother from whom she had
once hoped so much, the patient animal that had borne her
through so many pleasant paths, the flowery woods, and
the resounding sea, had all vanished from her as suddenly
as did her father and the bright home of her childhood.

The scenes through which they were passing were beautiful
as Paradise, and all nature seemed alive and jubilant.
The white blossoms of wild-plum-trees twinkled among
dark evergreens, a vegetable imitation of starlight. Widespreading
oaks and superb magnolias were lighted up with
sudden flashes of color, as scarlet grosbeaks flitted from
tree to tree. Sparrows were chirping, doves cooing, and
mocking-birds whistling, now running up the scale, then
down the scale, with an infinity of variations between.
The outbursts of the birds were the same as in seasons that
were gone, but the listener was changed. Rarely before
had her quick musical ear failed to notice how they would
repeat the same note with greater or less emphasis, then
flat it, then sharp it, varying their performances with all
manner of unexpected changes. But now she was merely
vaguely conscious of familiar sounds, which brought before
her that last merry day in her father's house, when Rosabella
laughed so much to hear her puzzle the birds with
her musical vagaries. Memory held up her magic mirror,
in which she saw pictured processions of the vanished
years. Thus the lonely child, with her loving, lingering
looks upon the past, was floated toward an unknown future
with the new friend a kind Providence had sent her.

CHAPTER IX.

[figure description] Page 108.[end figure description]

ROSA was surprised at the long absence of her sister;
and when the sun showed only a narrow golden edge
above the horizon, she began to feel anxious. She went to
the kitchen and said, “Tulee, have you seen anything of
Floracita lately? She went away while I was sleeping.”

“No, missy,” she replied. “The last I see of her was
in her room, with the embroidery-frame before her. She
was looking out of the window, as she did sometimes, as if
she was looking nowhere. She jumped up and hugged
and kissed me, and called me `Dear Tulee, good Tulee.'
The little darling was always mighty loving. When I
went there again, her needle was sticking in her work, and
her thimble was on the frame, but she was gone. I don't
know when she went away. Thistle's come back alone;
but he does that sometimes when little missy goes rambling
round.”

There was no uneasiness expressed in her tones, but,
being more disquieted than she wished to acknowledge,
she went forth to search the neighboring wood-paths and
the sea-shore. When she returned, Rosa ran out with the
eager inquiry, “Is she anywhere in sight?” In reply to
the negative answer, she said: “I don't know what to make
of it. Have you ever seen anybody with Floracita since
we came here?”

“Nobody but Massa Gerald,” replied Tulee.

“I wonder whether she was discontented here,” said
Rosa. “I don't see why she should be, for we all loved

[figure description] Page 109.[end figure description]

her dearly; and Gerald was as kind to her as if she had
been his own sister. But she has n't seemed like herself
lately; and this forenoon she hugged and kissed me ever so
many times, and cried. When I asked her what was the
matter, she said she was thinking of the pleasant times
when Papasito querido was alive. Do you think she was
unhappy?”

“She told me once she was homesick for Madame Guirlande,”
replied Tulee.

“Did she? Perhaps she was making so many things for
Madame because she meant to go there. But she could n't
find her way alone, and she knew it would be very dangerous
for either of us to go to New Orleans.”

Tulee made no reply. She seated herself on a wooden
bench by the open door, swinging her body back and forth
in an agitated way, ever and anon jumping up and looking
round in all directions. The veil of twilight descended
upon the earth, and darkness followed. The two inmates
of the cottage felt very miserable and helpless, as they sat
there listening to every sound. For a while nothing was
heard but the dash of the waves, and the occasional hooting
of an owl. The moon rose up above the pines, and
flooded earth and sea with silvery splendor.

“I want to go to the plantation and call Tom,” said
Rosa; “and there is such bright moonshine we might go,
but I am afraid Gerald would be displeased.”

Tulee at once volunteered to bring out Thistle, and to
walk beside her mistress.

Both started at the sound of footsteps. They were not
light enough for Floracita, but they thought it might be
some one bringing news. It proved to be the master of
the house.

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“Why, Gerald, how glad I am! I thought you were in
Savannah,” exclaimed Rosa. “Have you seen anything
of Floracita?”

“No. Is n't she here?” inquired he, in such a tone of
surprise, that Tulee's suspicions were shaken.

Rosa repeated the story of her disappearance, and concluded
by saying, “She told Tulee she was homesick to go
to Madame.”

“She surely would n't dare to do that,” he replied.

“Massa Gerald,” said Tulee, and she watched him
closely while she spoke, “there's something I did n't tell
Missy Rosy, 'cause I was feared it would worry her. I
found this little glove of Missy Flory's, with a bunch of
sea-weed, down on the beach; and there was marks of her
feet all round.”

Rosa uttered a cry. “O heavens!” she exclaimed, “I
saw an alligator a few days ago.”

An expression of horror passed over his face. “I've
cautioned her not to fish so much for shells and sea-mosses,”
said he; “but she was always so self-willed.”

“Don't say anything against the little darling!” implored
Rosa. “Perhaps we shall never see her again.”

He spoke a few soothing words, and then took his hat,
saying, “I am going to the sea-shore.”

“Take good care of yourself, dear Gerald!” cried
Rosa.

“No danger 'bout that,” muttered Tulee, as she walked
out of hearing. “There's things with handsomer mouths
than alligators that may be more dangerous. Poor little
bird! I wonder where he has put her.”

His feelings as he roamed on the beach were not to be
envied. His mind was divided between the thoughts that

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she had committed suicide, or had been drowned accidentally.
That she had escaped from his persecutions by flight
he could not believe; for he knew she was entirely unused
to taking care of herself, and felt sure she had no one to
help her. He returned to say that the tide had washed
away the footprints, and that he found no vestige of the
lost one.

At dawn he started for the plantation, whence, after
fruitless inquiries, he rode to the Welby estate. Mrs. Delano
had requested the household servants not to mention
having seen a small young lady there, and they had nothing
to communicate.

He resolved to start for New Orleans as soon as possible.
After a fortnight's absence he returned, bringing grieved
and sympathizing letters from the Signor and Madame;
and on the minds of all, except Tulee, the conviction settled
that Floracita was drowned. Hope lingered long
in her mind. “Wherever the little pet may be, she 'll
surely contrive to let us know,” thought she. “She ain't
like the poor slaves when they 're carried off. She can
write.” Her mistress talked with her every day about the
lost darling; but of course such suspicions were not to be
mentioned to her. Gerald, who disliked everything mournful,
avoided the subject entirely; and Rosabella, looking
upon him only with the eyes of love, considered it a sign
of deep feeling, and respected it accordingly.

But, blinded as she was, she gradually became aware
that he did not seem exactly like the same man who first
won her girlish love. Her efforts to please him were not
always successful. He was sometimes moody and fretful.
He swore at the slightest annoyance, and often flew into
paroxysms of anger with Tom and Tulee. He was more

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and more absent from the cottage, and made few professions
of regret for such frequent separations. Some weeks
after Flora's disappearance, he announced his intention to
travel in the North during the summer months. Rosabella
looked up in his face with a pleading expression, but
pride prevented her from asking whether she might accompany
him. She waited in hopes he would propose it;
but as he did not even think of it, he failed to interpret
the look of disappointment in her expressive eyes, as she
turned from him with a sigh.

“Tom will come with the carriage once a week,” said
he; “and either he or Joe will be here every night.”

“Thank you,” she replied.

But the tone was so sad that he took her hand with the
tenderness of former times, and said, “You are sorry to
part with me, Bella Rosa?”

“How can I be otherwise than sorry,” she asked,
“when I am all alone in the world without you? Dear
Gerald, are we always to live thus? Will you never acknowledge
me as your wife?”

“How can I do it,” rejoined he, “without putting myself
in the power of those cursed creditors? It is no fault of
mine that your mother was a slave.”

“We should be secure from them in Europe,” she replied.
“Why could n't we live abroad?”

“Do you suppose my rich uncle would leave me a cent
if he found out I had married the daughter of a quadroon?”
rejoined he. “I have met with losses lately, and
I can't afford to offend my uncle. I am sorry, dear, that
you are dissatisfied with the home I have provided for
you.”

“I am not dissatisfied with my home,” said she. “I have

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no desire to mix with the world, but it is necessary for you,
and these separations are dreadful.”

His answer was: “I will write often, dearest, and I will
send you quantities of new music. I shall always be looking
forward to the delight of hearing it when I return.
You must take good care of your health, for my sake. You
must go ambling about with Thistle every day.”

The suggestion brought up associations that overcame
her at once. “O how Floracita loved Thistle!” she exclaimed.
“And it really seems as if the poor beast misses
her. I am afraid we neglected her too much, Gerald.
We were so taken up with our own happiness, that we
did n't think of her so much as we ought to have done.”

“I am sure I tried to gratify all her wishes,” responded
he. “I have nothing to reproach myself with, and certainly
you were always a devoted sister. This is a morbid
state of feeling, and you must try to drive it off. You
said a little while ago that you wanted to see how the plantation
was looking, and what flowers had come out in the
garden. Shall I take you there in the barouche to-morrow?”

She gladly assented, and a few affectionate words soon
restored her confidence in his love.

When the carriage was brought to the entrance of the
wood the next day, she went to meet it with a smiling face
and a springing step. As he was about to hand her in, he
said abruptly, “You have forgotten your veil.”

Tulee was summoned to bring it. As Rosa arranged it
round her head, she remarked, “One would think you were
ashamed of me, Gerald.”

The words were almost whispered, but the tone sounded
more like a reproach than anything she had ever uttered.

[figure description] Page 114.[end figure description]

With ready gallantry he responded aloud, “I think so
much of my treasure that I want to keep it all to myself.”

He was very affectionate during their drive; and this,
combined with the genial air, the lovely scenery, and the
exhilaration of swift motion, restored her to a greater
sense of happiness than she had felt since her darling sister
vanished so suddenly.

The plantation was in gala dress. The veranda was almost
covered with the large, white, golden-eyed stars of the
Cherokee rose, gleaming out from its dark, lustrous foliage.
The lawn was a sheet of green velvet embroidered with
flowers. Magnolias and oaks of magnificent growth ornamented
the extensive grounds. In the rear was a cluster
of negro huts. Black picaninnies were rolling about in the
grass, mingling their laughter with the songs of the birds.
The winding paths of the garden were lined with flowering
shurbs, and the sea sparkled in the distance. Wherever
the eye glanced, all was sunshine, bloom, and verdure.

For the first time, he invited her to enter the mansion.
Her first movement was toward the piano. As she opened
it, and swept her hand across the keys, he said: “It is
sadly out of tune. It has been neglected because its owner
had pleasanter music elsewhere.”

“But the tones are very fine,” rejoined she. “What a
pity it should n't be used!” As she glanced out of the
window on the blooming garden and spacious lawn, she
said: “How pleasant it would be if we could live here!
It is so delightful to look out on such an extensive
open space.”

“Perhaps we will some time or other, my love,” responded
he.

She smiled, and touched the keys, while she sang

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snatches of familiar songs. The servants who brought in
refreshments wondered at her beauty, and clear, ringing
voice. Many dark faces clustered round the crack of the
door to obtain a peep; and as they went away they exchanged
nudges and winks with each other. Tom and
Chloe had confidentially whispered to some of them the existence
of such a lady, and that Tulee said Massa married
her in the West Indies; and they predicted that she would
be the future mistress of Magnolia Lawn. Others gave it
as their opinion, that Massa would never hide her as he
did if she was to be the Missis. But all agreed that she
was a beautiful, grand lady, and they paid her homage accordingly.
Her cheeks would have burned to scarlet flame
if she had heard all their comments and conjectures; but
unconscious of blame or shame, she gave herself up to the
enjoyment of those bright hours.

A new access of tenderness seemed to have come over
Fitzgerald; partly because happiness rendered her beauty
more radiant, and partly because secret thoughts that were
revolving in his mind brought some twinges of remorse.
He had never seemed more enamored, not even during the
first week in Nassau, when he came to claim her as his
bride. Far down in the garden was an umbrageous walk,
terminating in a vine-covered bower. They remained
there a long time, intertwined in each other's arms, talking
over the memories of their dawning consciousness of love,
and singing together the melodies in which their voices had
first mingled.

Their road home was through woods and groves festooned
with vines, some hanging in massive coils, others
light and aerial enough for fairy swings; then over the
smooth beach, where wave after wave leaped up and

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tossed its white foam-garland on the shore. The sun
was sinking in a golden sea, and higher toward the zenith
little gossamer clouds blushingly dissolved in the brilliant
azure, and united again, as if the fragrance of roses had
floated into form.

When they reached the cottage, Rosa passed through the
silent little parlor with swimming eyes, murmuring to herself:
“Poor little Floracita! how the sea made me think
of her. I ought not to have been so happy.”

But memory wrote the record of that halcyon day in
illuminated manuscript, all glowing with purple and gold,
with angel faces peeping through a graceful network of
flowers.

CHAPTER X.

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ROSABELLA had never experienced such loneliness
as in the months that followed. All music was saddened
by far-off echoes of past accompaniments. Embroidery
lost its interest with no one to praise the work, or to be
consulted in the choice of colors and patterns. The books
Gerald occasionally sent were of a light character, and
though they served to while away a listless hour, there was
nothing in them to strengthen or refresh the soul. The isolation
was the more painful because there was everything
around her to remind her of the lost and the absent. Flora's
unfinished embroidery still remained in the frame, with
the needle in the last stitch of a blue forget-me-not. Over
the mirror was a cluster of blush-roses she had made. On
the wall was a spray of sea-moss she had pressed and surrounded
with a garland of small shells. By the door was
a vine she had transplanted from the woods; and under a
tree opposite was a turf seat where she used to sit sketching
the cottage, and Tulee, and Thistle, and baskets of
wild-flowers she had gathered. The sight of these things
continually brought up visions of the loving and beautiful
child, who for so many years had slept nestling in her
arms, and made the days tuneful with her songs. Then
there was Gerald's silent flute, and the silken cushion she
had embroidered for him, on which she had so often seen
him reposing, and thought him handsome as a sleeping
Adonis. A letter from him made her cheerful for days;
but they did not come often, and were generally brief.

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Tom came with the carriage once a week, according to his
master's orders; but she found solitary drives so little refreshing
to body or mind that she was often glad to avail
herself of Tulee's company.

So the summer wore away, and September came to produce
a new aspect of beauty in the landscape, by tinging
the fading flowers and withering leaves with various shades
of brown and crimson, purple and orange. One day, early
in the month, when Tom came with the carriage, she told
him to drive to Magnolia Lawn. She had long been wishing
to revisit the scene where she had been so happy on
that bright spring day; but she had always said to herself,
“I will wait till Gerald comes.” Now she had grown so
weary with hope deferred, that she felt as if she could wait
no longer.

As she rode along she thought of improvements in the
walks that she would suggest to Gerald, if they ever went
there to live, as he had intimated they might. The servants
received her with their usual respectful manner and
wondering looks; but when she turned back to ask some
question, she saw them whispering together with an unusual
appearance of excitement. Her cheeks glowed with
a consciousness that her anomalous position was well calculated
to excite their curiosity; and she turned away,
thinking how different it had been with her mother,—how
sheltered and protected she had always been. She remembered
how very rarely her father left home, and how he
always hastened to return. She stood awhile on the veranda,
thinking sadly, “If Gerald loves me as Papasito
loved Mamita, how can he be contented to leave me so
much?” With a deep sigh she turned and entered the
house through an open window. The sigh changed at

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once to a bright smile. The parlor had undergone a wondrous
transformation since she last saw it. The woodwork
had been freshly painted, and the walls were covered
with silvery-flowered paper. Over curtains of embroidered
lace hung a drapery of apple-green damask, ornamented
with deep white-silk fringe and heavy tassels. “How kind
of Gerald!” murmured she. “He has done this because I
expressed a wish to live here. How ungrateful I was to
doubt him in my thoughts!”

She passed into the chamber, where she found a white
French bedstead, on which were painted bouquets of roses.
It was enveloped in roseate lace drapery, caught up at the
centre in festoons on the silver arrow of a pretty little
Cupid. From silver arrows over the windows there fell
the same soft, roseate folds. Her whole face was illuminated
with happiness as she thought to herself: “Ah! I
know why everything has a tinge of roses. How kind of
him to prepare such a beautiful surprise for me!”

She traversed the garden walks, and lingered long in the
sequestered bower. On the floor was a bunch of dried
violets which he had placed in her belt on that happy day.
She took them up, kissed them fervently, and placed them
near her heart. That heart was lighter than it had been
for months. “At last he is going to acknowledge me as
his wife,” thought she. “How happy I shall be when
there is no longer any need of secrecy!”

The servants heard her singing as she traversed the garden,
and gathered in groups to listen; but they scattered
as they saw her approach the house.

“She's a mighty fine lady,” said Dinah, the cook.

“Mighty fine lady,” repeated Tom; “an' I tell yer
she 's married to Massa, an' she 's gwine to be de Missis.”

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Venus, the chambermaid, who would have passed very
well for a bronze image of the sea-born goddess, tossed her
head as she replied: “Dunno bout dat ar. Massa does a
heap o' courtin' to we far sex.”

“How yer know dat ar?” exclaimed Dinah. “Whar
d'yer git dem year-rings?” And then there was a general
titter.

Rosabella, all unconscious in her purity, came up to Tom
while the grin was still upon his face, and in her polite
way asked him to have the goodness to bring the carriage.
It was with great difficulty that she could refrain from outbursts
of song as she rode homeward; but Gerald had particularly
requested her not to sing in the carriage, lest her
voice should attract the attention of some one who chanced
to be visiting the island.

Her first words when she entered the cottage were: “O
Tulee, I am so happy! Gerald has fitted up Magnolia
Lawn beautifully, because I told him I wished we could
live there. He said, that day we were there, that he would
try to make some arrangement with Papasito's creditors,
and I do believe he has, and that I shall not have to
hide much longer. He has been fitting up the house as if
it were for a queen. Is n't he kind?”

Tulee, who listened rather distrustfully to praises bestowed
on the master, replied that nobody could do anything
too good for Missy Rosy.

“Ah, Tulee, you have always done your best to spoil
me,” said she, laying her hand affectionately on the shoulder
of her petted servant, while a smile like sunshine mantled
her face. “But do get me something to eat. The ride
has made me hungry.”

“Ise glad to hear that, Missy Rosy. I begun to think

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't want no use to cook nice tidbits for ye, if ye jist turned'
em over wi' yer fork, and ate one or two monthfuls, without
knowing what ye was eatin'.”

“I've been pining for Gerald, Tulee; and I've been
afraid sometimes that he did n't love me as he used to do.
But now that he has made such preparations for us to live
at Magnolia Lawn, I am as happy as a queen.”

She went off singing, and as Tulee looked after her she
murmured to herself: “And what a handsome queen she'd
make! Gold ain't none too good for her to walk on. But
is it the truth he told her about settling with the creditors?
There's never no telling anything by what he says. Do
hear her singing now! It sounds as lively as Missy Flory.
Ah! that was a strange business. I wonder whether the
little darling is dead.”

While she was preparing supper, with such cogitations
passing through her mind, Rosa began to dash off a letter,
as follows:—

“Dearly Beloved,—I am so happy that I cannot
wait a minute without telling you about it. I have done a
naughty thing, but, as it is the first time I ever disobeyed
you, I hope you will forgive me. You told me never to
go to the plantation without you. But I waited and waited,
and you did n't come; and we were so happy there,
that lovely day, that I longed to go again. I knew it
would be very lonesome without you; but I thought it
would be some comfort to see again the places where we
walked together, and sang together, and called each other
all manner of foolish fond names. Do you remember how
many variations you rung upon my name, — Rosabella,
Rosalinda, Rosamunda, Rosa Regina? How you did pelt

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me with roses! Do you remember how happy we were in
the garden bower? How we sang together the old-fashioned
canzonet, `Love in thine eyes forever plays'? And
how the mocking-bird imitated your guitar, while you were
singing the Don Giovanni serenade?

“I was thinking this all over, as I rode alone over the
same ground we traversed on that happy day. But it was
so different without the love-light of your eyes and the
pressure of your dear hand, that I felt the tears gathering,
and had all manner of sad thoughts. I feared you did n't
care for me as you used to do, and were finding it easy to
live without me. But when I entered the parlor that
overlooks the beautiful lawn, all my doubts vanished.
You had encouraged me to hope that it might be our
future home; but I little dreamed it was to be so soon, and
that you were preparing such a charming surprise for me.
Don't be vexed with me, dearest, for finding out your secret.
It made me so happy! It made the world seem like Paradise.
Ah! I knew why everything was so rose-colored.
It was so like you to think of that! Then everything is so
elegant! You knew your Rosamunda's taste for elegance.

“But Tulee summons me to supper. Dear, good, faithful
Tulee! What a comfort she has been to me in this
lonesome time!

“Now I have come back to the pretty little writing-desk
you gave me, and I will finish my letter. I feel as if I
wanted to write to you forever, if I can't have you to talk
to. You can't imagine how lonesome I have been. The
new music you sent me was charming; but whatever I
practised or improvised took a solemn and plaintive character,
like the moaning of the sea and the whispering of

[figure description] Page 123.[end figure description]

the pines. One's own voice sounds so solitary when there
is no other voice to lean upon, and no appreciating ear to
listen for the coming chords. I have even found it a relief
to play and sing to Tulee, who is always an admiring listener,
if not a very discriminating one; and as for Tom, it
seems as if the eyes would fly out of his head when I play
to him. I have tried to take exercise every day, as you
advised; but while the hot weather lasted, I was afraid of
snakes, and the mosquitoes and sand-flies were tormenting.
Now it is cooler I ramble about more, but my loneliness
goes everywhere with me. Everything is so still here,
that it sometimes makes me afraid. The moonlight looks
awfully solemn on the dark pines. You remember that dead
pine-tree? The wind has broken it, and there it stands in
front of the evergreen grove, with two arms spread out,
and a knot like a head with a hat on it, and a streamer of
moss hanging from it. It looks so white and strange in
the moonlight, that it seems as if Floracita's spirit were
beckoning to me.

“But I did n't mean to write about sad things. I don't
feel sad now; I was only telling you how lonely and
nervous I had been, that you might imagine how much
good it has done me to see such kind arrangements at
Magnolia Lawn. Forgive me for going there, contrary
to your orders. I did so long for a little variety! I
couldn't have dreamed you were planning such a pleasant
surprise for me. Sha' n't we be happy there, calling one
another all the old foolish pet names? Dear, good Gerald,
I shall never again have any ungrateful doubts of your love.

“Adios, luz de mes ojos. Come soon to

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That evening the plash of the waves no longer seemed
like a requiem over her lost sister; the moonlight gave
poetic beauty to the pines; and even the blasted tree, with
its waving streamer of moss, seemed only another picturesque
feature in the landscape; so truly does Nature give
us back a reflection of our souls.

She waked from a refreshing sleep with a consciousness
of happiness unknown for a long time. When Tom came
to say he was going to Savannah, she commissioned him to
go to the store where her dresses were usually ordered,
and buy some fine French merino. She gave him very
minute directions, accompanied with a bird-of-paradise
pattern. “That is Gerald's favorite color,” she said to
herself. “I will embroider it with white floss-silk, and tie
it with white silk cord and tassels. The first time we
breakfast together at Magnolia Lawn I will wear it, fastened
at the throat with that pretty little knot of silver
filigree he gave me on my birthday. Then I shall look
as bridal as the home he is preparing for me.”

The embroidery of this dress furnished pleasant occupation
for many days. When it was half finished, she tried
it on before the mirror, and smiled to see how becoming
was the effect. She queried whether Gerald would like
one or two of Madame Guirlande's pale amber-colored artificial
nasturtiums in her hair. She placed them coquettishly
by the side of her head for a moment, and laid them
down, saying to herself: “No; too much dress for the
morning. He will like better the plain braids of my hair
with the curls falling over them.” As she sat, hour after
hour, embroidering the dress which was expected to
produce such a sensation, Tulee's heart was gladdened
by hearing her sing almost continually. “Bless her

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dear heart!” exclaimed she; “that sounds like the old
times.”

But when a fortnight passed without an answer to her
letter, the showers of melody subsided. Shadows of old
doubts began to creep over the inward sunshine; though
she tried to drive them away by recalling Gerald's promise
to try to secure her safety by making a compromise with
her father's creditors. And were not the new arrangements
at Magnolia Lawn a sign that he had accomplished
his generous purpose? She was asking herself that question
for the hundredth time, as she sat looking out on the
twilight landscape, when she heard a well-known voice approaching,
singing, “C'est l'amour, l'amour, l'amour, qui
fait le monde à la ronde”; and a moment after she was
folded in Gerald's arms, and he was calling her endearing
names in a polyglot of languages, which he had learned
from her and Floracita.

“So you are not very angry with me for going there
and finding out your secret,” inquired she.

“I was angry,” he replied; “but while I was coming to
you all my anger melted away.”

“And you do love me as well as ever,” said she. “I
thought perhaps so many handsome ladies would fall in love
with you, that I should not be your Rosa munda any more.”

“I have met many handsome ladies,” responded he,
“but never one worthy to bear the train of my Rosa Regina.”

Thus the evening passed in conversation more agreeable
to them than the wittiest or the wisest would have been.
But it has been well said, “the words of lovers are like the
rich wines of the South, — they are delicious in their native
soil, but will not bear transportation.”

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The next morning he announced the necessity of returning
to the North to complete some business, and said he
must, in the mean time, spend some hours at the plantation.
“And Rosa dear,” added he, “I shall really be angry with
you if you go there again unless I am with you.”

She shook her finger at him, and said, with one of her
most expressive smiles: “Ah, I see through you! You
are planning some more pleasant surprises for me. How
happy we shall be there! As for that rich uncle of yours,
if you will only let me see him, I will do my best to make
him love me, and perhaps I shall succeed.”

“It would be wonderful if you did not, you charming
enchantress,” responded he. He folded her closely, and
looked into the depths of her beautiful eyes with intensity,
not unmingled with sadness.

A moment after he was waving his hat from the shrubbery;
and so he passed away out of her sight. His sudden
reappearance, his lavish fondness, his quick departure,
and the strange earnestness of his farewell look, were remembered
like the flitting visions of a dream.

CHAPTER XI.

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IN less than three weeks after that tender parting, an elegant
barouche stopped in front of Magnolia Lawn, and
Mr. Fitzgerald assisted a very pretty blonde young lady to
alight from it. As she entered the parlor, wavering gleams
of sunset lighted up the pearl-colored paper, softened by
lace-shadows from the windows. The lady glanced round
the apartment with a happy smile, and, turning to the window,
said: “What a beautiful lawn! What superb trees!”

“Does it equal your expectations, dear?” he asked.
“You had formed such romantic ideas of the place, I
feared you might be disappointed.”

“I suppose that was the reason you tried to persuade
me to spend our honeymoon in Savannah,” rejoined she.
“But we should be so bored with visitors. Here, it seems
like the Garden of Eden, when Adam and Eve had it all
to themselves, before the serpent went there to make mischief.
I had heard father and mother tell so much about
Magnolia Lawn that I was eager to see it.”

“They visited it in spring, when it really does look like
Paradise,” replied he. “It has its beauties now; but this
is not the favorable season for seeing it; and after we have
been here a few days, I think we had better return to Savannah,
and come again when the lawn is carpeted with
flowers.”

“I see your mind is bent upon not staying here,” answered
she; “and I suppose it would be rather tiresome
to have no other company than your stupid little Lily Bell.”

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She spoke with a pouting affectation of reproach, and he
exclaimed, “Lily, darling!” as he passed his arm round her
slender waist, and, putting aside a shower of pale yellowish
ringlets, gazed fondly into the blue eyes that were upturned
to his.

They were interrupted by the entrance of Venus, who
came to ask their orders. “Tell them to serve supper at
seven, and then come and show your mistress to her dressing-room,”
he said. As she retired, he added: “Now she'll
have something to tell of. She'll be proud enough of being
the first to get a full sight of the new Missis; and it is
a sight worth talking about.”

With a gratified smile, she glanced at the pier-glass
which reflected her graceful little figure, and, taking his
arm, she walked slowly round the room, praising the tasteful
arrangements. “Everything has such a bridal look!”
she said.

“Of course,” replied he; “when I have such a fair Lily
Bell for a bride, I wish to have her bower pearly and lilylike.
But here is Venus come to show you to your dressing-room.
I hope you will like the arrangements up stairs
also.”

She kissed her hand to him as she left the room, and he
returned the salute. When she had gone, he paced slowly
up and down for a few moments. As he passed the piano,
he touched the keys in a rambling way. The tones he
brought out were a few notes of an air he and Rosabella
had sung in that same room a few months before. He
turned abruptly from the instrument, and looked out from
the window in the direction of the lonely cottage. Nothing
was visible but trees and a line of the ocean beyond. But
the chambers of his soul were filled with visions of Rosa.

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He thought of the delightful day they had spent together,
looking upon these same scenes; of their songs and caresses
in the bower; of her letter, so full of love and glad surprise
at the bridal arrangements she supposed he had made for
her. “I really hope Lily wont insist upon staying here
long,” thought he; “for it is rather an embarrassing position
for me.”

He seated himself at the piano and swept his hand up
and down the keys, as if trying to drown his thoughts in a
tempest of sound. But, do what he would, the thoughts
spoke loudest; and after a while he leaned his head forward
on the piano, lost in revery.

A soft little hand touched his head, and a feminine voice
inquired, “What are you thinking of, Gerald?”

“Of you, my pearl,” he replied, rising hastily, and stooping
to imprint a kiss on the forehead of his bride.

“And pray what were you thinking about me?” she
asked.

“That you are the greatest beauty in the world, and that
I love you better than man ever loved woman,” rejoined he.
And so the game of courtship went on, till it was interrupted
by a summons to supper.

When they returned some time later, the curtains were
drawn and candles lighted. “You have not yet tried the
piano,” said he, as he placed the music-stool.

She seated herself, and, after running up and down the
keys, and saying she liked the tone of the instrument, she
began to play and sing “Robin Adair.” She had a sweet,
thin voice, and her style of playing indicated rather one
who had learned music, than one whose soul lived in its
element. Fitzgerald thought of the last singing he had
heard at that piano; and without asking for another song,

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he began to sing to her accompaniment, “Drink to me only
with thine eyes.” He had scarcely finished the line, “Leave
a kiss within the cup, and I'll not ask for wine,” when clear,
liquid tones rose on the air, apparently from the veranda;
and the words they carried on their wings were these:—

The bride listened intensely, her fingers resting lightly
on the keys, and when the sounds died away she started
up, exclaiming, “What a voice! I never heard anything
like it.”

She moved eagerly toward the veranda, but was suddenly
arrested by her husband. “No, no, darling,” said
he. “You mustn't expose yourself to the night air.”

“Then do go out yourself and bring her in,” urged she.
“I must hear more of that voice. Who is she?”

“One of the darkies, I suppose,” rejoined he. “You
know they all have musical gifts.”

“Not such gifts as that, I imagine,” she replied. “Do
go out and bring her in.”

She was about to draw the curtain aside to look out,
when he nervously called her attention to another window.
“See here!” he exclaimed. “My people are gathering to
welcome their new missis. In answer to Tom's request,
I told him I would introduce you to them to-night. But
you are tired, and I am afraid you will take cold in the

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evening air; so we will postpone the ceremony until to-morrow.”

“O, no,” she replied, “I would prefer to go now. How
their black faces will shine when they see the glass beads
and gay handkerchiefs I have brought for them! Besides,
I want to find out who that singer is. It's strange you
don't take more interest in such a voice as that, when you
are so full of music. Will you have the goodness to ring
for my shawl?”

With a decision almost peremptory in its tone, he said,
“No; I had rather you would not go out.” Seeing that
his manner excited some surprise, he patted her head and
added: “Mind your husband now, that's a good child.
Amuse yourself at the piano while I go out.”

She pouted a little, but finished by saying coaxingly,
“Come back soon, dear.” She attempted to follow him
far enough to look out on the veranda, but he gently put
her back, and, kissing his hand to her, departed. She
raised a corner of the curtain and peeped out to catch the
last glimpse of his figure. The moon was rising, and she
could see that he walked slowly, peering into spots of dense
shadow or thickets of shrubbery, as if looking for some
one. But all was motionless and still, save the sound of a
banjo from the group of servants. “How I wish I could
hear that voice again!” she thought to herself. “It's very
singular Gerald should appear so indifferent to it. What
can be the meaning of it?”

She pondered for a few minutes, and then she tried to
play; but not finding it entertaining without an auditor, she
soon rose, and, drawing aside one of the curtains, looked
out upon the lovely night. The grand old trees cast broad
shadows on the lawn, and the shrubbery of the garden

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gleamed in the soft moonlight. She felt solitary without
any one to speak to, and, being accustomed to have her
whims gratified, she was rather impatient under the prohibition
laid upon her. She rung the bell and requested
Venus to bring her shawl. The obsequious dressing-maid
laid it lightly on her shoulders, and holding out a white
nubia of zephyr worsted, she said, “P'r'aps missis would
like to war dis ere.” She stood watching while her mistress
twined the gossamer fabric round her head with careless
grace. She opened the door for her to pass out on the
veranda, and as she looked after her she muttered to herself,
“She's a pooty missis; but not such a gran' hansom
lady as turrer.” A laugh shone through her dark face as
she added, “'T would be curus ef she should fine turrer
missis out dar.” As she passed through the parlor she
glanced at the large mirror, which dimly reflected her
dusky charms, and said with a smile: “Massa knows
what's hansome. He's good judge ob we far sex.”

The remark was inaudible to the bride, who walked up
and down the veranda, ever and anon glancing at the garden
walks, to see if Gerald were in sight. She had a little
plan of hiding among the vines when she saw him coming,
and peeping out suddenly as he approached. She thought
to herself she should look so pretty in the moonlight, that
he would forget to chide her. And certainly she was a
pleasant vision. Her fairy figure, enveloped in soft white
folds of muslin, her delicate complexion shaded by curls so
fair that they seemed a portion of the fleecy nubia, were so
perfectly in unison with the mild radiance of the evening,
that she seemed like an embodied portion of the moonlight.
Gerald absented himself so long that her little plan of surprising
him had time to cool. She paused more frequently

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in her promenade, and looked longer at the distant sparkle
of the sea. Turning to resume her walk, after one of these
brief moments of contemplation, she happened to glance at
the lattice-work of the veranda, and through one of its
openings saw a large, dark eye watching her. She started
to run into the house, but upon second thought she called
out, “Gerald, you rogue, why did n't you speak to let me
know you were there?” She darted toward the lattice,
but the eye disappeared. She tried to follow, but saw only
a tall shadow gliding away behind the corner of the house.
She pursued, but found only a tremulous reflection of vines
in the moonlight. She kept on round the house, and into
the garden, frequently calling out, “Gerald! Gerald!”
“Hark! hark!” she murmured to herself, as some far-off
tones of “Toll the bell” floated through the air. The
ghostly moonlight, the strange, lonely place, and the sad,
mysterious sounds made her a little afraid. In a more
agitated tone, she called Gerald again. In obedience to
her summons, she saw him coming toward her in the garden
walk. Forgetful of her momentary fear, she sprang
toward him, exclaiming: “Are you a wizard? How did
you get there, when two minutes ago you were peeping at
me through the veranda lattice?”

“I have n't been there,” he replied; “but why are you
out here, Lily, when I particularly requested you to stay
in the house till I came?”

“O, you were so long coming, that I grew tired of being
alone. The moonlight looked so inviting that I went out
on the veranda to watch for you; and when I saw you
looking at me through the lattice, I ran after you, and
could n't find you.”

`I have n't been near the lattice,” he replied. “If you

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saw somebody looking at you, I presume it was one of the
servants peeping at the new missis.”

“None of your tricks!” rejoined she, snapping her fingers
at him playfully. “It was your eye that I saw. If it
were n't for making you vain, I would ask you whether
your handsome eyes could be mistaken for the eyes of one
of your negroes. But I want you to go with me to that
bower down there.”

“Not to-night, dearest,” said he. “I will go with you
to-morrow.”

“Now is just the time,” persisted she. “Bowers never
look so pretty as by moonlight. I don't think you are very
gallant to your bride to refuse her such a little favor.”

Thus urged, he yielded, though reluctantly, to her whim.
As she entered the bower, and turned to speak to him, the
moonlight fell full upon her figure. “What a pretty little
witch you are!” he exclaimed. “My Lily Bell, my precious
pearl, my sylph! You look like a spirit just floated
down from the moon.”

“All moonshine!” replied she, with a smile.

He kissed the saucy lips, and the vines which had witnessed
other caresses in that same bower, a few months
earlier, whispered to each other, but told no tales. She
leaned her head upon his bosom, and looking out upon the
winding walks of the garden, so fair and peaceful in sheen
and shadow, she said that her new home was more beautiful
than she had dreamed. “Hark!” said she, raising
her head suddenly, and listening. “I thought I heard a
sigh.”

“It was only the wind among the vines,” he replied.
“Wandering about in the moonlight has made you nervous.”

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“I believe I was a little afraid before you came,” said
she. “That eye looking at me through the lattice gave
me a start; and while I was running after your shadow, I
heard that voice again singing, `Toll the bell.' I wonder
how you can be so indifferent about such a remarkable
voice, when you are such a lover of music.”

“I presume, as I told you before, that it was one of the
darkies,” rejoined he. “I will inquire about it to-morrow.”

“I should sooner believe it to be the voice of an angel
from heaven, than a darky,” responded the bride. “I
wish I could hear it again before I sleep.”

In immediate response to her wish, the full rich voice
she had invoked began to sing an air from “Norma,” beginning,
“O, how his art deceived thee!”

Fitzgerald started so suddenly, he overturned a seat near
them. “Hush!” she whispered, clinging to his arm. Thus
they stood in silence, she listening with rapt attention, he
embarrassed and angry almost beyond endurance. The
enchanting sounds were obviously receding.

“Let us follow her, and settle the question who she is,”
said Lily, trying to pull him forward. But he held her
back strongly.

“No more running about to-night,” he answered almost
sternly. Then, immediately checking himself, he added, in
a gentler tone: “It is imprudent in you to be out so long
in the evening air; and I am really very tired, dear Lily.
To-morrow I will try to ascertain which of the servants
has been following you round in this strange way.”

“Do you suppose any servant could sing that?” she
exclaimed.

“They are nearly all musical, and wonderfully imitative,”
answered he. “They can catch almost anything

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they hear.” He spoke in a nonchalant tone, but she felt
his arm tremble as she leaned upon it. He had never before
made such an effort to repress rage.

In tones of tender anxiety, she said: “I am afraid
you are very tired, dear. I am sorry I kept you out
so long.”

“I am rather weary,” he replied, taking her hand, and
holding it in his. He was so silent as they walked toward
the house, that she feared he was seriously offended with
her.

As they entered the parlor she said, “I did n't think
you cared about my not going out, Gerald, except on account
of my taking cold; and with my shawl and nubia I
don't think there was the least danger of that. It was such
a beautiful night, I wanted to go out to meet you, dear.”

He kissed her mechanically, and replied, “I am not
offended, darling.”

“Then, if the blue devils possess you, we will try Saul's
method of driving them away,” said she. She seated herself
at the piano, and asked him whether he would accompany
her with voice or flute. He tried the flute, but
played with such uncertainty, that she looked at him with
surprise. Music was the worst remedy she could have
tried to quiet the disturbance in his soul; for its voice
evoked ghosts of the past.

“I am really tired, Lily,” said he; and, affecting a drowsiness
he did not feel, he proposed retiring for the night.

The chamber was beautiful with the moon shining through
its rose-tinted drapery, and the murmur of the ocean was a
soothing lullaby. But it was long before either of them
slept; and when they slumbered, the same voice went
singing through their dreams. He was in the flowery

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parlor at New Orleans, listening to “The Light of other Days”;
and she was following a veiled shadow through a strange
garden, hearing the intermingled tones of “Norma” and
“Toll the bell.”

It was late in the morning when she awoke. Gerald
was gone, but a bouquet of fragrant flowers lay on the pillow
beside her. Her dressing-gown was on a chair by the
beside, and Venus sat at the window sewing.

“Where is Mr. Fitzgerald?” she inquired.

“He said he war gwine to turrer plantation on business.
He leff dem flower dar, an' tole me to say he 'd come back
soon.”

The fair hair was neatly arranged by the black hands that
contrasted so strongly with it. The genteel little figure
was enveloped in a morning-dress of delicate blue and
white French cambric, and the little feet were ensconced
in slippers of azure velvet embroidered with silver. The
dainty breakfast, served on French porcelain, was slowly
eaten, and still Gerald returned not. She removed to the
chamber window, and, leaning her cheek on her hand, looked
out upon the sun-sparkle of the ocean. Her morning
thought was the same with which she had passed into slumber
the previous night. How strange it was that Gerald
would take no notice of that enchanting voice! The incident
that seemed to her a charming novelty had, she knew
not why, cast a shadow over the first evening in their
bridal home.

CHAPTER XII.

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MR. FITZGERALD had ordered his horse to be
saddled at an earlier hour than Tom had ever
known him to ride, except on a hunting excursion, and in
his own mind he concluded that his master would be asleep
at the hour he had indicated. Before he stretched himself
on the floor for the night, he expressed this opinion to the
cook by saying, “Yer know, Dinah, white folks is allers
mighty wide awake de night afore dey gits up.”

To his surprise, however, Mr. Fitzgerald made his appearance
at the stable just as he was beginning to comb
the horse. “You lazy black rascal,” he exclaimed, “did n't
I order you to have the horse ready by this time?”

“Yes, Massa,” replied Tom, sheering out of the way of
the upraised whip; “but it peers like Massa's watch be
leetle bit faster dan de sun dis ere mornin'.”

The horse was speedily ready, and Tom looked after his
master as he leaped into the saddle and dashed off in the
direction of the lonely cottage. There was a grin on his
face as he muttered, “Reckon Missis don't know whar yer
gwine.” He walked toward the house, whistling, “Nelly
was a lady.”

“Dat ar war gwine roun' an' roun' de hus las' night, jes
like a sperit. 'Twar dat ar Spanish lady,” said Dinah.

“She sings splendiferous,” rejoined Tom, “an' Massa
liked it more dan de berry bes bottle ob wine.” He ended
by humming, “Now all dem happy days am ober.”

“Better not let Massa hear yer sing dat ar,” said Dinah.
“He make yer sing nudder song.”

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“She's mighty gran' lady, an' a bery perlite missis, an'
Ise sorry fur her,” replied Tom.

Mr. Fitzgerald had no sense of refreshment in his morning
ride. He urged his horse along impatiently, with brow
contracted and lips firmly compressed. He was rehearsing
in his mind the severe reprimand he intended to bestow
upon Rosa. He expected to be met with tears and reproaches,
to which he would show himself hard till she
made contrite apologies for her most unexpected and provoking
proceedings. It was his purpose to pardon her at
last, for he was far enough from wishing to lose her; and
she had always been so gentle and subnissive, that he entertained
no doubt the scene would end with a loving
willingness to accept his explanations, and believe in his
renewed professions. “She loves me to distraction, and
she is entirely in my power,” thought he. “It will be
strange indeed if I cannot mould her as I will.”

Arrived at the cottage, he found Tulee washing on a
bench outside the kitchen. “Good morning, Tulee,” said
he. “Is your mistress up yet?”

“Missy Rosy ha'n't been asleep,” she answered in a
very cold tone, without looking up from her work.

He entered the house, and softly opened the door of
Rosa's sleeping apartment. She was walking slowly, with
arms crossed, looking downward, as if plunged in thought.
Her extreme pallor disarmed him, and there was no hardness
in his tone when he said, “Rosabella!”

She started, for she had supposed the intruder was Tulee.
With head proudly erect, nostrils dilated, and eyes that
flashed fire, she exclaimed, “How dare you come here?”

This reception was so entirely unexpected, that it disconcerted
him; and instead of the severe reproof he had

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contemplated, he said, in an expostulating tone: “Rosa,
I always thought you the soul of honor. When we parted,
you promised not to go to the plantation unless I was
with you. Is this the way you keep your word?”

“You talk of honor and promises!” she exclaimed.

The sneer conveyed in the tones stung him to the quick.
But he made an effort to conceal his chagrin, and said, with
apparent calmness: “You must admit it was an unaccountable
freak to start for the plantation in the evening, and
go wandering round the grounds in that mysterious way.
What could have induced you to take such a step?”

“I accidentally overheard Tom telling Tulee that you
were to bring home a bride from the North yesterday. I
could not believe it of you, and I was too proud to question
him. But after reflecting upon it, I chose to go and see
for myself. And when I had seen for myself, I wished
to remind you of that past which you seemed to have forgotten.”

“Course on Tom!” he exclaimed. “He shall smart for
this mischief.”

“Don't be so unmanly as to punish a poor servant for
mentioning a piece of news that interested the whole plantation,
and which must of course be a matter of notoriety,”
she replied very quietly. “Both he and Tulee were delicate
enough to conceal it from me.”

Fitzgerald felt embarrassed by her perfect self-possession.
After a slight pause, during which she kept her face
averted from him, he said: “I confess that appearances are
against me, and that you have reason to feel offended. But
if you knew just how I was situated, you would, perhaps,
judge me less harshly. I have met with heavy losses
lately, and I was in danger of becoming bankrupt unless I

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could keep up my credit by a wealthy marriage. The
father of this young lady is rich, and she fell in love
with me. I have married her; but I tell you truly, dear
Rosa, that I love you more than I ever loved any other
woman.”

“You say she loved you, and yet you could deceive her
so,” she replied. “You could conceal from her that you
already had a wife. When I watched her as she walked
on the veranda I was tempted to reveal myself, and disclose
your baseness.”

Fitzgerald's eyes flashed with sudden anger, as he vociferated,
“Rosa, if you ever dare to set up any such
claim —”

“If I dare!” she exclaimed, interrupting him in a tone
of proud defiance, that thrilled through all his nerves.

Alarmed by the strength of character which he had
never dreamed she possessed, he said: “In your present
state of mind, there is no telling what you may dare to
do. It becomes necessary for you to understand your true
position. You are not my wife. The man who married
us had no legal authority to perform the ceremony.”

“O steeped in falsehood to the lips!” exclaimed she.
“And you are the idol I have worshipped!”

He looked at her with astonishment not unmingled with
admiration. “Rosa, I could not have believed you had
such a temper,” rejoined he. “But why will you persist
in making yourself and me unhappy? As long as my wife
is ignorant of my love for you, no harm is done. If you
would only listen to reason, we might still be happy. I
could manage to visit you often. You would find me as
affectionate as ever; and I will provide amply for you.”

“Provide for me?” she repeated slowly, looking him

[figure description] Page 142.[end figure description]

calmly and loftily in the face. “What have you ever seen
in me, Mr. Fitzgerald, that has led you to suppose I would
consent to sell myself?”

His susceptible temperament could not withstand the
regal beauty of her proud attitude and indignant look.
“O Rosa,” said he, “there is no woman on earth to be
compared with you. If you only knew how I idolize you
at this moment, after all the cruel words you have uttered,
you surely would relent. Why will you not be reasonable,
dearest? Why not consent to live with me as your mother
lived with your father?”

“Don't wrong the memory of my mother,” responded
she hastily. “She was too pure and noble to be dishonored
by your cruel laws. She would never have entered
into any such base and degrading arrangement as you propose.
She could n't have lived under the perpetual shame
of deceiving another wife. She could n't have loved my
father, if he had deceived her as you have deceived me.
She trusted him entirely, and in return he gave her his
undivided affection.”

“And I give you undivided affection,” he replied. “By
all the stars of heaven, I swear that you are now, as you
always have been, my Rosa Regina, my Rosa munda.”

“Do not exhaust your oaths,” rejoined she, with a contemptuous
curl of the lip. “Keep some of them for your
Lily Bell, your precious pearl, your moonlight sylph.”

Thinking the retort implied a shade of jealousy, he felt
encouraged to persevere. “You may thank your own imprudence
for having overheard words so offensive to you,”
responded he. “But Rosa, dearest, you cannot, with all
your efforts, drive from you the pleasant memories of our
love. You surely do not hate me?”

[figure description] Page 143.[end figure description]

“No, Mr. Fitzgerald; you have fallen below hatred. I
despise you.”

His brow contracted, and his lips tightened. “I cannot
endure this treatment,” said he, in tones of suppressed rage.
“You tempt me too far. You compel me to humble your
pride. Since I cannot persuade you to listen to expostulations
and entreaties, I must inform you that my power over
you is complete. You are my slave. I bought you of
your father's creditors before I went to Nassau. I can sell
you any day I choose; and, by Jove, I will, if —”

The sudden change that came over her arrested him.
She pressed one hand hard upon her heart, and gasped for
breath. He sank at once on his knees, crying, “O, forgive
me, Rosa! I was beside myself.”

But she gave no sign of hearing him; and seeing her
reel backward into a chair, with pale lips and closing eyes,
he hastened to summon Tulee. Such remorse came over
him that he longed to wait for her returning consciousness.
But he remembered that his long absence must excite surprise
in the mind of his bride, and might, perhaps, connect
itself with the mysterious singer of the preceding evening.
Goaded by contending feelings, he hurried through the
footpaths whence he had so often kissed his hand to Rosa
in fond farewell, and hastily mounted his horse without one
backward glance.

Before he came in sight of the plantation, the perturbation
of his mind had subsided, and he began to think himself
a much-injured individual. “Plague on the caprices
of women!” thought he. “All this comes of Lily's taking
the silly, romantic whim of coming here to spend the honeymoon.
And Rosa, foolish girl, what airs she assumes! I
wanted to deal generously by her; but she rejected all my

[figure description] Page 144.[end figure description]

offers as haughtily as if she had been queen of Spain and
all the Americas. There's a devilish deal more of the
Spanish blood in her than I thought for. Pride becomes
her wonderfully; but it won't hold out forever. She'll
find that she can't live without me. I can wait.”

Feeling the need of some safety-valve to let off his vexation,
he selected poor Tom for that purpose. When the
obsequious servant came to lead away the horse, his master
gave him a sharp cut of the whip, saying, “I'll teach you
to tell tales again, you black rascal!” But having a dainty
aversion to the sight of pain, he summoned the overseer,
and consigned him to his tender mercies.