e nest, and watch the
bird, without being able to touch it. This was not altogether
satisfactory. The little fellow looked about him for a calabash to
throw at the nest; but his mother had carried in all her cups for the
service of the supper-table. As no more wind came at his call, he could
only blow with all his might, to swing the tendril again; and he was
amusing himself thus when his father laid down his book, and stepped out
to see once more whether Jean was approaching.

"Lift me down," said the boy to his sister, when his head was giddy with
blowing. Genifrede would fain have let him stay where he was, out of
the way of mischief; but she saw that he was really afraid of falling,
and she offered her shoulders for him to descend upon. When down, she
would not let him touch her work; she took her scissors from his busy
hands, and shook him off when he tried to pull the snowberries out of
her hair; so that there was nothing left for the child to play with but
his father's book. He was turning it over, when Toussaint re-appeared.

"Ha! boy, a book in your hands already? I hope you may have as much
comfort out of that book as I have had, Denis."

"What is it? what is it about?" said the boy, who had heard many a story
out of books from his father.

"What is it? Let us see. I think you know letters enough to spell it
out for yourself. Come and try."

The child knew the letter E, and, with a good deal of help, made out, at
last, Epictetus.

"What is that?" asked the boy.

"Epictetus was a negro," said Genifrede, complacently.

"Not a negro," said her father, smiling. "He was a slave; but he was a
white."

"Is that the reason you read that book so much more than any other?"

"Partly; but partly because I like what is in it."

"What is in it--any stories?" asked Denis.

"It is all about bearing and forbearing. It has taught me many things
which you will have to learn by-and-by. I shall teach you some of them
out of this book."

Denis made all haste away from the promised instruction, and his father
was presently again absorbed in his book. From respect to him,
Genifrede kept Denis quiet by signs of admonition; and for some little
time nothing was heard but the sounds that in the plains of Saint
Domingo never cease--the humming and buzzing of myriads of insects, the
occasional chattering of monkeys in a neighbouring wood, and, with a
passing gust, a chorus of frogs from a distant swamp. Uncon