“Ah! but, dear friend, there is one sort of trial that would crush me—to have the good name of my mother’s daughter breathed upon by slander.”
“That must never—can never be, Roma!” exclaimed the clergyman and the lawyer, in a breath.
At this moment they were interrupted by a strange incident.
Ducky Darling rushed into the room and flung herself face downward on the floor, with all her limbs sprawled out, howling:
“Oh, Owly! Owly! Owly!”
“Why, what is the matter, Dorcas?” inquired Miss Fronde, raising the child to her feet and looking at her.
The little black face was all screwed up with anguish and streaming with tears.
“What about Owlet? Where is she?” inquired the young lady, drawing the child nearer and gazing in her convulsed face.
“Dorn’way! W’ite man!” sobbed the child, wildly weeping.
“White man? What white man? Stop crying, dear, and tell me all about it,” said Roma, with increasing anxiety, while the minister and the attorney looked on with silent interest.