rds that escaped
us. We were too happy to converse. Our lips paid respect to the
solemnity of our hearts.

It was neither the place nor time for Love to go blind, and prudence
soon recalled me to myself. There was still much to be said, and many
plans to be discussed before our new-sprung happiness should be secured
to us. Both were aware of the abyss that still yawned between us. Both
were aware that a thorny path must be trodden before we could reach the
elysium of our hopes. Notwithstanding our present bliss, the future was
dark and dangerous; and the thought of this soon startled us from our
short sweet dream.

Aurora had no longer any _fear_ of my love. She did not even wrong me
with suspicion. She doubted not my purpose to make her my _wife_. Love
and gratitude stifled every doubt, and we now conversed with a mutual
confidence which years of friendship could scarce have established.

But we talked with hurried words. We knew not the moment we might be
interrupted. We knew not when again we might meet alone. We had need
to be brief.

I explained to her my circumstances--that in a few days I expected a sum
of money--enough, I believed, for the purpose. What purpose? _The
purchase of my bride_!

"Then," added I, "nothing remains but to get married, Aurore!"

"Alas!" replied she with a sigh, "even were I free, we could not be
married _here_. Is it not a wicked law that persecutes us even when
pretending to give us freedom?"

I assented.

"We could not get married," she continued, evidently suffering under
painful emotion, "we could not unless you could swear there was African
blood in your veins! Only think of such a law in a Christian land!"

"Think _not_ of it, Aurore," said I, wishing to cheer her. "There shall
be no difficulty about swearing that. I shall take this gold pin from
your hair, open this beautiful blue vein in your arm, drink from it, and
take the oath!"

The quadroon smiled, but the moment after her look of sadness returned.

"Come, dearest Aurore! chase away such thoughts! What care we to be
married here? We shall go elsewhere. There are lands as fair as
Louisiana, and churches as fine as Saint Gabriel to be married in. We
shall go northward--to England--to France--anywhere. Let not that
grieve you!"

"It is not that which grieves me."

"What then, dearest?"

"Oh! It is--I fear--"

"Tear not to tell me."

"That you will not be able--"

"Declare it, Auro