Nearly twelve months had now elapsed since the disclosure of the crime.  Maxwell, our young Englishman, had spent the time among the neighbouring plantations; and failing to enlist more than friendly considerations from Franconia, resolved to return to Bermuda and join his family.  He had, however, taken a deep interest in Clotilda and Annette,—­had gone to their apartment unobserved, and in secret interviews listened to Clotilda’s tale of trouble.  Its recital enlisted his sympathies; and being of an ardent and impressible temper, he determined to carry out a design for her relief.  He realised her silent suffering,—­saw how her degraded condition wrangled with her noble feelings,—­how the true character of a woman loathed at being the slave of one who claimed her as his property.  And this, too, without the hope of redeeming herself, except by some desperate effort.  And, too, he saw but little difference between the blood of Franconia and the blood of Clotilda; the same outline of person was there,—­her delicate countenance, finely moulded bust, smoothly converging shoulders.  There was the same Grecian cast of face, the same soft, reflective eyes,—­filling a smile with sweetness, and again with deep-felt sorrow.  The same sensitive nature, ready to yield forth love and tenderness, or to press onward the more impassioned affections, was visible in both.  And yet, what art had done for Franconia nature had replenished for Clotilda.  But, the servile hand was upon her, she crouched beneath its grasp; it branded her life, and that of her child, with ignominy and death.

During these interviews he would watch her emotions as she looked upon her child; when she would clasp it to her bosom, weeping, until from the slightest emotion her feelings would become frantic with anguish.

“And you, my child, a mother’s hope when all other pleasures are gone!  Are you some day to be torn from me, and, like myself, sent to writhe under the coarse hand of a slave-dealer, to be stung with shame enforced while asking God’s forgiveness?  Sometimes I think it cannot be so; I think it must all be a dream.  But it is so, and we might as well submit, say as little of the hardship as possible, and think it’s all as they tell us-according to God’s will,” she would say, pressing the child closer and closer to her bosom, the agitation of her feelings rising into convulsions as the tears coursed down her cheeks.  Then she would roll her soft eyes upwards, her countenance filling with despair.  The preservation of her child was pictured in the depth of her imploring look.  For a time her emotions would recede into quiet,—­she would smile placidly upon Annette, forget the realities that had just swept her mind into such a train of trouble.