“I don’t like mysteries. I don’t. They always make me feel as if I was in a cellar, or some dark place and in danger. And what is more, I don’t believe in them. I don’t believe my father and mother are buried in the ground. I believe they both went out to heaven before that which they used to live in was put in the ground. And, somehow, inside of myself I know it is so. Do you like to read, David Lindsay?” she asked, abruptly.
“Yes; I learned to read and write at St. Inigoes parish school; but I have no books except Webster’s Spelling Book, and I know every word of that by heart, even the fables.”
“Oh, then I can bring you ever so many books. I have a bookcase full, all of my own, in my room, and uncle has a great room full, from the floor up to the ceiling, all around the walls, you know.”
“That is very good of you. I do thank you. You are the little girl that lives up in the house, then—Colonel de Crespigney’s niece?”
“Yes—no. I mean I am Madame de Crespigney’s niece; though, do you know, it seems so strange, I always feel as if he was more kin to me than she is!”
“I suppose you love him best; that must be the reason. Well, everybody loves Colonel de Crespigney. I know I do. He took me on to work here out of kindness, I am sure, for he couldn’t really want me, you see, so many colored people as he has!”
“He is very, very good, and very unhappy. Where do you live, David Lindsay?” she inquired, with the sudden transition of a child’s thoughts.
“Do you see that little, tiny bit of an island out there by itself?” he said, rising and pointing eastward.
“What!—that little sandbank?” she exclaimed in surprise.
“Yes, there is a house on it.”