“I will tell you something of her and myself; a very little story; you can draw the moral.  My father, who was a Virginian, sent my brother and me to England when we were mere boys, to be trained and educated.  After his fashion, doubtless, he loved us; for he saw that we had every advantage that wealth, and taste, and care could provide; and though he never sent for us, nor came to us, in all the years after we left his house,—­and though we had no legal claim upon him,—­he acknowledged us his children, and left us the entire proceeds of his immense estates, unincumbered.  We were so young when we went abroad, had been so tenderly treated at home, had seen and known so absolutely nothing of the society about us, that we were ignorant as Arabs of the state of feeling and prejudice in America against such as we, who carried any trace of negro blood.  Our treatment in England did but increase this oblivion.

“We graduated at Oxford; my brother, who was two years older than I, waiting upon me that we might go together through Europe; and together we had three of the happiest years of life.  On the Continent I met her.  You see what she is; you know Francesca:  it is useless for me to attempt to describe her.  I loved her,—­she loved me,—­it was confessed.  In a little while I called her wife; I would, if I could, tell you of the time that followed:  I cannot.  We had a beautiful home, youth, health, riches, friends, happiness, two noble boys.  At last an evil fate brought us to America.  I was to look after some business affairs which, my agent said, needed personal supervision.  My brother, whose health had failed, was advised to try a sea-voyage, and change of scene and climate.  My wife was enthusiastic about the glorious Republic,—­the great, free America,—­the land of my birth.  We came, carrying with us letters from friends in England, that were an open sesame to the most jealously barred doors.  They flew wide at our approach, but to be shut with speed when my face was seen; hands were cordially extended, and drawn back as from a loathsome contact when mine went to meet them.  In brief, we were outlawed, ostracised, sacrificed on the altar of this devilish American prejudice,—­wholly American, for it is found nowhere else in the world,—­I for my color, she for connecting her fate with mine.

“I was so held as to be unable to return at once, and she would not leave me.  Then my brother drooped more and more.  His disease needed the brightest and most cheerful influences.  The social and moral atmosphere stifled him.  He died; and we, with grief intensified by bitterness, laid him in the soil of his own country as though it had been that of the stranger and enemy.