"I am going with you, am I not, papa?"

"Naturally," replied my father; "and Françoise shall go also."

Françoise--that was I; poor child of sixteen, who had but six months
before quitted the school-bench, and totally unlike my sister--blonde,
where Suzanne was dark; timid, even cowardly, while she had the hardihood
and courage of a young lioness; ready to cry at sight of a wounded bird,
while she, gun in hand, brought down as much game as the most skillful
hunter.

I exclaimed at my father's speech. I had heard there were many Indians in
Attakapas; the name means man-eaters. I have a foolish terror of Indians,
and a more reasonable one for man-eaters. But papa and Suzanne mocked at
my fears; and as, after all, I burned with desire for the journey, it was
decided that I should go with them.

Necessarily we wanted to know how we were to go--whether we should travel
by skiff, and how many negroes and negresses would go with us. For you
see, my daughter, young people in 1795 were exactly what they are in 1822;
they could do nothing by themselves, but must have a domestic to dress and
undress them. Especially in traveling, where one had to take clothes out
of trunks and put them back again, assistance became an absolute
necessity. Think, then, of our astonishment, of our vexation, when papa
assured us that he would not take a single slave; that my sister and I
would be compelled to help each other, and that the skiff would remain
behind, tied up at the landing where it then lay.

"But explain yourself, Papa, I beg of you," cried Suzanne, with her