Marie saw the astounded look on Iola’s face, and nerving herself to the task, said:  “Iola, I must tell you what your father always enjoined me to be silent about.  I did not think it was the wisest thing, but I yielded to his desires.  I have negro blood in my veins.  I was your father’s slave before I married him.  His relatives have set aside his will.  The courts have declared our marriage null and void and my manumission illegal, and we are all to be remanded to slavery.”

An expression of horror and anguish swept over Iola’s face, and, turning deathly pale, she exclaimed, “Oh, mother, it can’t be so! you must be dreaming!”

“No, my child; it is a terrible reality.”

Almost wild with agony, Iola paced the floor, as the fearful truth broke in crushing anguish upon her mind.  Then bursting into a paroxysm of tears succeeded by peals of hysterical laughter, said:—­

“I used to say that slavery is right.  I didn’t know what I was talking about.”  Then growing calmer, she said, “Mother, who is at the bottom of this downright robbery?”

“Alfred Lorraine; I have always dreaded that man, and what I feared has come to pass.  Your father had faith in him; I never had.”

“But, mother, could we not contest his claim.  You have your marriage certificate and papa’s will.”

“Yes, my dear child, but Judge Starkins has decided that we have no standing in the court, and no testimony according to law.”

“Oh, mother, what can I do?”

“Nothing, my child, unless you can escape to the North.”

“And leave you?”

“Yes.”

“Mother, I will never desert you in your hour of trial.  But can nothing be done?  Had father no friends who would assist us?”

“None that I know of.  I do not think he had an acquaintance who approved of our marriage.  The neighboring planters have stood so aloof from me that I do not know where to turn for either help or sympathy.  I believe it was Lorraine who sent the telegram.  I wrote to you as soon as I could after your father’s death, but fainted just as I finished directing the letter.  I do not think he knows where your brother is, and, if possible, he must not know.  If you can by any means, do send a letter to Harry and warn him not to attempt to come home.  I don’t know how you will succeed, for Lorraine has us all under surveillance.  But it is according to law.”

“What law, mother?”

“The law of the strong against the weak.”

“Oh, mother, it seems like a dreadful dream, a fearful nightmare!  But I cannot shake it off.  Where is Gracie?”

“The dear child has been running down ever since her papa’s death.  She clung to me night and day while I had the brain fever, and could not be persuaded to leave me.  She hardly ate anything for more than a week.  She has been dangerously ill for several days, and the doctor says she cannot live.  The fever has exhausted all her rallying power, and yet, dear as she is to me, I would rather consign her to the deepest grave than see her forced to be a slave.”