“Oh, I hope that he will be alive and growing better!” was the thought which kept constantly revolving in her mind, until she fell asleep.  In her dreams she was at home, encircled in the warm clasp of her father’s arms, feeling her mother’s kisses lingering on her lips, and hearing the joyous greetings of the servants and Mammy Liza’s glad welcome as she folded her to her heart.  From this dream of bliss she was awakened by a burning kiss pressed on her lips, and a strong arm encircling her.  Gazing around and taking in the whole situation, she sprang from her seat, her eyes flashing with rage and scorn, her face flushed to the roots of her hair, her voice shaken with excitement, and every nerve trembling with angry emotion.

“How dare you do such a thing!  Don’t you know if my father were here he would crush you to the earth?”

“Not so fast, my lovely tigress,” said Bastine, “your father knew what he was doing when he placed you in my charge.”

“My father made a great mistake, if he thought he had put me in charge of a gentleman.”

“I am your guardian for the present,” replied Bastine.  “I am to see you safe home, and then my commission ends.”

“I wish it were ended now,” she exclaimed, trembling with anger and mortification.  Her voice was choked by emotion, and broken by smothered sobs.  Louis Bastine thought to himself, “she is a real spitfire, but beautiful even in her wrath.”

During the rest of her journey Iola preserved a most freezing reserve towards Bastine.  At length the journey was ended.  Pale and anxious she rode up the avenue which led to her home.

A strange silence pervaded the place.  The servants moved sadly from place to place, and spoke in subdued tones.  The windows were heavily draped with crape, and a funeral air pervaded the house.

Mammy Liza met her at the door, and, with streaming eyes and convulsive sobs, folded her to her heart, as Iola exclaimed, in tones of hopeless anguish:—­

“Oh, papa’s dead!”

“Oh, my pore baby!” said mammy, “ain’t you hearn tell ’bout it?  Yore par’s dead, an’ your mar’s bin drefful sick.  She’s better now.”

Mam Liza stepped lightly into Mrs. Leroy’s room, and gently apprised her of Iola’s arrival.  In a darkened room lay the stricken mother, almost distracted by her late bereavement.

“Oh, Iola,” she exclaimed, as her daughter entered, “is this you?  I am so sorry you came.”

Then, burying her head in Iola’s bosom, she wept convulsively.  “Much as I love you,” she continued, between her sobs, “and much as I longed to see you, I am sorry you came.”

“Why, mother,” replied Iola, astonished, “I received your telegram last Wednesday, and I took the earliest train I could get.”

“My dear child, I never sent you a telegram.  It was a trick to bring you down South and reduce you to slavery.”

Iola eyed her mother curiously.  What did she mean?  Had grief dethroned her reason?  Yet her eye was clear, her manner perfectly rational.