The moon’s silver rays were playing on the calm surface of the river, the foliage on its banks seemed bathed in quiet repose, the gentle breeze, bearing its balmy odours, wafted through the arbour of oaks, as if to fan her crimson cheeks; the azalia and magnolia combined their fragrance, impregnating the dew falling over the scene, as if to mantle it with beauty.  She slept, a picture of southern beauty; her auburn tresses in undulating richness playing to and fro upon her swelling bosom,-how developed in all its delicacy!-her sensitive nature made more lovely by the warmth and generosity of her heart.  Still she slept, her youthful mind overflowing with joy and buoyancy:  about her there was a ravishing simplicity more than earthly:  a blush upon her cheek became deeper,-it was the blush of love flashing in a dream, that tells its tale in nervous vibrations, adding enchantment to sleeping voluptuousness;-and yet all was sacred, an envied object no rude hand dare touch!

Franconia had been educated at the north, in a land where—­God bless the name—­Puritanism is not quite extinct; and through the force of principles there inculcated had outgrown much of that feeling which at the south admits to be right what is basely wrong.  She hesitated to reproach Marston with the bad effect of his life, but resolved on endeavouring to enlist Clotilda’s confidence, and learn how far her degraded condition affected her feelings.  She saw her with the same proud spirit that burned in her own bosom; the same tenderness, the same affection for her child, the same hopes and expectations for the future, and its rewards.  The question was, what could be done for Clotilda?  Was it better to reason with her,-to, if possible, make her happy in her condition?  Custom had sanctioned many unrighteous inconsistencies:  they were southern, nothing more!  She would intercede with her Uncle, she would have him sign free papers for Clotilda and her child; she saw a relationship which the law could not disguise, though it might crush out the natural affections.  With these thoughts passing in her mind, her imagination wandered until she dropped into the sleep we have described.

There she slept, the blushes suffusing her cheeks, until old Aunt Rachel, puffing and blowing like an exhausting engine, entered the room.  Aunty is the pink of a plantation mother:  she is as black as the blackest, has a face embodying all the good-nature of the plantation, boasts of her dimensions, which she says are six feet, well as anybody proportioned.  Her head is done up in a flashy bandana, the points nicely crosslain, and extending an elaborate distance beyond her ears, nearly covering the immense circular rings that hang from them.  Her gingham dress, starched just so, her whitest white apron, never worn before missus come, sets her off to great advantage.  Aunty is a good piece of property-tells us how many hundred dollars there is in her-feels that she has been promoted because Mas’r told somebody he would not take a dollar less for her.  She can superintend the domestic affairs of the mansion just as well as anybody.  In one hand she bears a cup of orange-grove coffee, in the other a fan, made of palmetto-leaves.