be committed to the flames.  But fearing that Madame or the Signor might come to Savannah in search of tidings, and that some unlucky accident might bring them to speech of his bride, he concluded it was best to ward off such a contingency.  He accordingly wrote a very studied letter to Madame, telling her that, with her knowledge of the world, he supposed she must be well aware that the daughter of a quadroon slave could not be legally recognized as the wife of a Southern gentleman; that he still loved Rosa better than any other woman, but wishing for legal heirs to his hereditary estate, it was necessary for him to marry.  He stated that Rosa was recovering from a slow fever, and had requested him to say that they must not feel anxious about her; that she had everything for her comfort, had been carefully attended by two good nurses, was daily getting better, and would write in a few weeks; meanwhile, if anything retarded her complete recovery, he would again write.

This letter he thought would meet the present emergency.  His plans for the future were unsettled.  He still hoped that Rosa, alone and unprotected as she was, without the legal ownership of herself, and subdued by sickness and trouble, would finally accede to his terms.

She, in her unconscious state, was of course ignorant of this correspondence.  For some time after she recognized her nurses, she continued to be very drowsy, and manifested no curiosity concerning her condition.  She was as passive in their hands as an infant, and they treated her as such.  Chloe sung to her, and told her stories, which were generally concerning her own remarkable experiences; for she was a great seer of visions.  Perhaps she owed them to gifts of imagination, of which culture would have made her a poet; but to her they seemed to be an objective reality.  She often told of seeing Jesus, as she walked to and from the plantation.  Once she had met him riding upon Thistle, with a golden crown upon his head.  One evening he had run before her all the way, as a very little child, whose shining garments lighted up all the woods.

Four months after the swift destruction of her hopes, Rosa, after taking some drink from Tulee’s hand, looked up in her face, and said, “How long have I been sick, dear Tulee?”

“No matter about that, darling,” she replied, patting her head fondly.  “Ye mustn’t disturb your mind ’bout that.”

After a little pause, the invalid said, “But tell me how long.”

“Well then, darling, I didn’t keep no ’count of the time; but Tom says it’s February now.”

“Yer see, Missy Rosy,” interposed Chloe, “yer sperit hab done gone somewhar, an’ yer didn’t know nottin’.  But a booful angel, all in white, tuk yer by de han’ an’ toted yer back to Tulee an’ Chloe.  Dat ar angel hab grat hansum eyes, an’ she tole me she war yer mudder; an’ dat she war gwine to be wid yer allers, cause twar de will ob de Lord.”

Rosa listened with a serious, pleased expression in her face; for the words of her simple comforter inspired a vague consciousness of some supernatural presence surrounding her with invisible protection.