“Do not make yourself unhappy, Clotilda.  Perhaps you are as well with us as you would be elsewhere.  Even at the free north, in happy New England, ladies would not take the notice of you we do:  many of your class have died there, poor and wretched, among the most miserable creatures ever born to a sad end.  And you are not black-”

“All is not truth that is told for such,” Clotilda interrupts Franconia.  “If I were black, my life would have but one stream:  now it is terrible with uncertainty.  As I am, my hopes and affections are blasted.”

“Sit down, Clotilda,” rejoins Franconia, quickly.

Clotilda, having lavished her skill on Franconia’s hair, seats herself by her side.  Franconia affectionately takes her tapering hand and presses it with her jewelled fingers.  “Remember, Clotilda,” she continues, “all the negroes on the plantation become unhappy at seeing you fretful.  It is well to seem happy, for its influence on others.  Uncle will always provide for Annette and you; and he is kind.  If he pays more attention to Ellen at times, take no notice of it.  Ellen Juvarna is Indian, moved to peculiarities by the instincts of her race.  Uncle is imprudent, I admit; but society is not with us as it is elsewhere!”

“I care not so much for myself,” speaks the woman, in a desponding voice; “it is Annette; and when you spoke of her you touched the chord of all my troubles.  I can endure the sin forced upon myself; but, O heavens! how can I butcher my very thoughts with the unhappy life that is before her?  My poor mother’s words haunt me.  I know her feelings now, because I can judge them by my own-can see how her broken heart was crushed into the grave!  She kissed my hand, and said, ’Clotilda, my child, you are born to a cruel death.  Give me but a heart to meet my friends in judgment!’”

The child with the flaxen hair, humming a tune, came scampering up the stairs into the room.  It recognises Franconia, and, with a sportive laugh, runs to her and fondles in her lap; then, turning to its mother, seems anxious to divide its affections between them.  Its features resembled Franconia’s-the similarity was unmistakeable; and although she fondled it, talked with it, and smoothed its little locks, she resisted its attempts to climb on her knee:  she was cold.

“Mother says I look like you, and so does old Aunt Rachel, Miss Franconia-they do,” whispers the child, shyly, as it twisted its fingers round the rings on Franconia’s hand.  Franconia blushed, and cast an inquiring look at Clotilda.

“You must not be naughty,” she says; “those black imps you play with around Aunt Rachel’s cabin teach you wrong.  You must be careful with her, Clotilda; never allow her to such things to white people:  she may use such expressions before strangers,-which would be extremely painful-”

“It seems too plain:  if there be no social sin, why fear the degradation?” she quietly interrupts.  “You cannot keep it from the child.  O, how I should like to know my strange history, Franconia,-to know if it can be that I was born to such cruel misfortunes, such bitter heart-achings, such gloomy forebodings.  If I were, then am I content with my lot.”