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The Langs made no second appearance at the cotillon
parties. At the next Parke zealously danced with the
prettiest girls in the room till ten o'clock, when he disappeared,
and returned in the space of an hour, remarking,
to those standing near the entrance, that he had been
taking the air and a cigar. In connection with these
were facts which he did not mention. He went to the
tavern stable, where he knew there were saddled horses
which belonged to some of the party, and applied to an
ostler for one, telling him there was a mistake about a
card of invitation which must be rectified at once. He
gave the man a handful of cigars as he made the request,
and in a moment a horse was led out, and he was on his
way to Mrs. Lang's. Arrived there, he fastened the
horse to the palings of the little yard, ran up the path,
and knocked at the door. It was opened by Mrs. Lang,
holding a lamp, and shading it with her hand.

“Good-evening to you,” said Parke.

“Good-evening,” she answered, intent on keeping the
lamp alight.

“Are your daughters at home?”

“Yes, sir. Here, Clarice, Charlotte.” And she retreated,
placing the lamp on the window-shelf of the sitting-room,
so that its rays fell across Parke on the steps,
glanced down the path, revealing the black stalks of the
hollyhocks, and the dark shape of the horse tied to the
paling. Clarice came out, followed by Charlotte.

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“I called,” said Parke, in a polite voice, “to inquire
whether there was any mistake in your card of invitation
to-night.”

“None at all,” replied Clarice; “we decline going.”

She turned away abruptly, and vanished, but Charlotte
lingered.

“You left the party to come so far to inquire?” she
said, regretfully.

“It was my business, as manager, to do so.”

“You are very kind, sir.”

“You could not enjoy yourself much the other evening,
of course.”

“Oh, no!” she answered, plaintively, moving forward,
and bringing her face into the lamplight, which revealed
its pure, fragile, delicious outlines.

He shivered at the sudden sight so palpably, that, to
hide it, he exclaimed it was a cold evening.

“Excuse me for keeping you.” But, instead of making
a move to return, she took another step forward. “I
feel the cold, too, sir; the change in the climate is great;
there is nothing warm here.”

“Oh yes! something.” And he advanced a step. His
silky mustache almost touched the band of hair that fell
low down her face.

“No,” she repeated, “there is nothing of the South
here.”

The thought of Philippa flashed into his mind.

“I have a cousin from the South.”

“I saw her,” she said, disdainfully.

“I must go; I shall be missed. Good-by.”

“Did you ride up here?” she asked, discovering the
horse.

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“Yes. Do you like to ride?”

“Very much.”

“Some time will you ride with me?”

“Oh yes!” And she clapped her hands with delight.

“You will see me soon, then; good-night.”

“Why did you stand and palaver with that young
man?” asked Clarice.

“Why Clarice!”

“He would not come by daylight.”

“Yet you called him daring.”

Mrs. Lang closed the hymn-book she had been reading,
and looked first at Clarice and then at Charlotte.

“It is of no use,” she said, “for you to fret each other;
give it up so. What one wants, the other wouldn't
have. I tell you to make the best of every thing.”

“The best!” said Clarice, with contempt.

“Alive or dead, you will stay in this place. Make a
way if you can. God Almighty knows I am content.”

“Mother,” asked Clarice, “you had a white husband.”

“Who tole you so?” she answered, with an indescribable
grimace.

“I asked you,” screamed Clarice.

“I brought you into the world, you are my chil'n—
bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh, with all your beauty.”

“That's the curse of it.”

“Devil's brat,” cried her mother, “your father will
find his chile, sooner or later.”

Charlotte, who had not uttered a word during the
scene, now rose and put out the light.

“What's that for?” her mother asked.

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“We are all of a color now.”

Mrs. Lang shrieked with laughter. “She beat you,
Clarice; she do always.”

Charlotte unbraided her long hair, which, in the firelight,
even, looked silky and elastic, cautioned Clarice
about the fire, and glided from the room; but Clarice
immediately followed her, and Mrs. Lang was left
alone.

She carefully set up the firebrands against the jambs,
squatted on the hearth, thrust her feet in the hot ashes,
and talked to herself, breaking into a laugh occasionally,
and checking it with a “Bless de Lord.” Her head
dropped on her knees, and she slept, till a loud dash of
rain startled her.


“Hi, hi, the trade-wind blows,
Ha, ha, the good ship goes!”
she sang, feeling about the floor for the shoes she had
kicked off, to put on, and go to bed properly before
“dose girls.”