A few hours after, she asked, with head averted from her attendant, “Has any one been here since I have been ill?”

Anxious to soothe the wounded heart as much as possible, Tulee answered:  “Massa Gerald come to ask how ye did; and when he went to Savannah, he left Tom and Chloe at the plantation to help me take care of ye.”

She manifested no emotion; and after a brief silence she inquired for letters from Madame.  Being informed that there were none, she expressed a wish to be bolstered up, that she might try to write a few lines to her old friend.  Chloe, in reply, whispered something in her ear, which seemed to surprise her.  Her cheeks flushed, the first time for many a day; but she immediately closed her eyes, and tears glistened on the long, dark lashes.  In obedience to the caution of her nurses, she deferred any attempt to write till the next week.  She remained very silent during the day, but they knew that her thoughts were occupied; for they often saw tears oozing through the closed eyelids.

Meanwhile, her friends in New Orleans were in a state of great anxiety.  Mr. Fitzgerald had again written in a strain very similar to his first letter, but from Rosa herself nothing had been received.

“I don’t know what to make of this,” said Madame.  “Rosa is not a girl that would consent to a secondary position where her heart was concerned.”

“You know how common it is for quadroons to accede to such double arrangements,” rejoined the Signor.

“Of course I am well aware of that,” she replied; “but they are educated, from childhood, to accommodate themselves to their subordinate position, as a necessity that cannot be avoided.  It was far otherwise with Rosa.  Moreover, I believe there is too much of Grandpa Gonsalez in her to submit to anything she deemed dishonorable.  I think, my friend, somebody ought to go to Savannah to inquire into this business.  If you should go, I fear you would get into a duel.  You know dear Floracita used to call you Signor Pimentero.  But Mr. Fitzgerald won’t fight me, let me say what I will.  So I think I had better go.”

“Yes, you had better go.  You’re a born diplomate, which I am not,” replied the Signor.

Arrangements were accordingly made for going in a day or two; but they were arrested by three or four lines from Rosa, stating that she was getting well, that she had everything for her comfort, and would write more fully soon.  But what surprised them was that she requested them to address her as Madame Gonsalez, under cover to her mantuamaker in Savannah, whose address was given.

“That shows plainly enough that she and Fitzgerald have dissolved partnership,” said Madame; “but as she does not ask me to come, I will wait for her letter of explanation.”  Meanwhile, however, she wrote very affectionately in reply to the brief missive, urging Rosa to come to New Orleans, and enclosing fifty dollars, with the statement that an old friend of her father’s had died and left a legacy for his daughters.  Madame had, as Floracita observed, a talent for arranging the truth with variations.