"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-"