l; has perfect and complete control. With such
advantages, what can he not effect? All that he may desire--her
marriage, or her ruin. Poor lady! I pity her!"

Strange to say, it was only _pity_. That it was not another feeling was
a mystery I could not comprehend.

The entrance of Scipio interrupted my reflections. A young girl
assisted him with the plates and dishes. This was "Chloe," his
daughter, a child of thirteen, or thereabouts, but not black like the
father! She was a "yellow girl," with rather handsome features. Scipio
explained this. The mother of his "leettle Chlo," as he called her, was
a mulatta, and "`Chlo' hab taken arter de ole 'oman. Hya! hya!"

The tone of Scipio's laugh showed that he was more than satisfied--
proud, in fact--of being the father of so light-skinned and pretty a
little creature as Chloe!

Chloe, like all her kind, was brimful of curiosity, and in rolling about
the whites of her eyes to get a peep at the buckra stranger who had
saved her mistress' life, she came near breaking cups, plates, and
dishes; for which negligence Scipio would have boxed her ears, but for
my intercession. The odd expressions and gestures, the novel behaviour
of both father and daughter, the peculiarity of this slave-life,
interested me.

I had a keen appetite, notwithstanding my weakness. I had eaten nothing
on the boat; in the excitement of the race, supper had been forgotten by
most of the passengers, myself among the number. Scipio's preparations
now put my palate in tune, and I did ample justice to the skill of
Chloe's mother, who, as Scipio informed me, was "de boss in de kitchen."
The tea strengthened me; the chicken, delicately fricasseed and
garnished upon rice, seemed to refill my veins with fresh blood. With
the exception of the slight pain of my wound, I already felt quite
restored.

My attendants removed the breakfast things, and after a while Scipio
returned to remain in the room with me, for such were his orders.

"And now, Scipio," I said, as soon as we were alone, "tell me of
Aurore!"

"'Rore, mass'r!"

"Yes--Who is Aurore?"

"Poor slave, mass'r; jes like Ole Zip heamseff."

The vague interest I had begun to feel in "Aurore" vanished at once.

"A slave!" repeated I, involuntarily, and in a tone of disappointment.

"She Missa 'Genie's maid," continued Scipio; "dress missa's hair--wait
on her--sit wi' her--read to her--do ebbery ting--"

"Read to her! what!--a slave