cape forced
to leave her in the only home she had, was away fighting Northern
battles. This was a dreadful thing, and Mas'r Andersen was a traitor to
somebody,--so much Flor knew,--it might be the Government, it might be
the South, it might be Miss Agatha; her ideas were nebulous. Whatever it
was, Mas'r Rob and his gun were on the other side, and woe be to Mas'r
Andersen when they met! Mas'r Rob and his friends were beating back the
men that meant to take away Flor and all her kind to freeze and starve;
'twas very good of him, Flor thought, and there ceased consideration.
Meanwhile, wherever Mas'r Andersen might be, and whether he were so much
as alive or not, Miss Agatha was not the one that knew; and Flor adapted
many a rigadoon to her conjectured feelings, now swaying and bending
with sorrow and longing, head fallen, arms outstretched, now hands
clasped on bosom, exultant in welcome and possession.

The importance to which Flor gradually rose by no means led her to the
exhibition of any greater decorum; on the contrary, it seemed to impart
to her the secret of perpetual motion; and, aware of her impunity, she
danced with fresher vigor in the very teeth of her censurers and their
reproaches.

"Go 'long wid yer capers, ye Limb!" said Zoe to her, late one afternoon,
as she entered with the half of a rabbit she had caught, and, having
deposited it, went through the intricacies of her most elaborate figure
in breathless listening to an unheard tune. "Ef I had dem sticks o'
legs, dey'd do berrer work nor twirlin' me like I was a factotum."

At this, Flor suddenly spun about on the tip of one toe for the space of
three minutes, with a buzzing noise like that of a top in hot motion,
pausing at last to inquire, "Well, Maum Zoe, an' w'at's dat?" and be
off again in another whirl.

"I'd red Mas'r Henry ob sich a wurfless nigger."

"Wurfless?" inquired Flor, still spinning.

"Wuss 'n wurfless."

"How 'd y' do it?"

"I'd jus' foller dat ar Sarp," said Zoe, turning over the rabbit, and
considering whether a pepper-corn and a little onion out of her own
patch wouldn't improve the broth she meant to make of it.

"Into de swamps?" said Flor, in a high key. "Sarp's a fool. I heerd
Mas'r Henry say so. Dey'll gib him a blue-pill, for sartain."

"Humph!" said Aunt Zoe, as if she could say a great deal more.

"Tell ye w'at, Maum Zoe," replied Flor, shaking her sidelong head at
every syllable, and accentuating her remarks with