"No, Aunt Ada," he answered, hesitatingly, whilst a look of annoyance
darkened his face for a moment; "I have not been to visit her since last
fall--almost a year."

"Oh! Clarence, how can you remain so long away?" said she, reproachfully.

"Well, I can't go there with any comfort or pleasure," he answered,
apologetically; "I can't go there; each year as I visit the place, their
ways seem more strange and irksome to me. Whilst enjoying her company, I
must of course come in familiar contact with those by whom she is
surrounded. Sustaining the position that I do--passing as I am for a white
man--I am obliged to be very circumspect, and have often been compelled to
give her pain by avoiding many of her dearest friends when I have
encountered them in public places, because of their complexion. I feel mean
and cowardly whilst I'm doing it; but it is necessary--I can't be white and
coloured at the same time; the two don't mingle, and I must consequently be
one or the other. My education, habits, and ideas, all unfit me for
associating with the latter; and I live in constant dread that something
may occur to bring me out with the former. I don't avoid coloured people,
because I esteem them my inferiors in refinement, education, or
intelligence; but because they are subjected to degradations that I shall
be compelled to share by too freely associating with them."

"It is a pity," continued he, with a sigh, "that I was not suffered to grow
up with them, then I should have learnt to bear their burthens, and in the
course of time might have walked over my path of life, bearing the load
almost unconsciously. Now it would crush me, I know. It was a great mistake
to place me in my present false position," concluded he, bitterly; "it has
cursed me. Only a day ago I had a letter from Em, reproaching me for my
coldness; yet, God help me! What am I to do!"

Miss Ada looked at him sorrowfully, and continued smoothing down his hair,
and inundating his temples with Cologne; at last she ventured to inquire,
"How do matters progress with you and Miss Bates? Clary, you have lost your
heart there!"

"Too true," he replied, hurriedly; "and what is more--little Birdie (I call
her little Birdie) has lost hers too. Aunt Ada, we are engaged!"

"With her parents' consent?" she asked.

"Yes, with her parents' consent; we are to be married in the coming
winter."

"Then they know _all_, of course--they know you are coloured?" observed
she.

"