“Whom?”
“Mark Sutherland!” answered Rosalie, with her eyes sparkling with delight.
They were standing upon the hurricane deck of the steamer Indian Queen, which was puffing and blowing its rapid course down the Ohio river. She was leaning on the arm of her husband; their heads were bare, the better to enjoy the freshness of the morning air; her eyes were sparkling, and her cheeks glowing with animation, and her sunny ringlets, blown back, floated on the breeze.
From their elevated site they commanded a view of both shores of the river, and turned their eyes alternately from the north to the south side.
“Does my dear Rosalie perceive any very remarkable difference in the aspect of these opposite shores?” asked Mark, bending his serious gaze upon her.
“Yes! I notice that one shore is thickly studded with thriving villages and flourishing fields, while the other is a comparative wilderness, with here and there a plantation house, and at long intervals a stunted town. What can be the reason of this?”
“Have you not already surmised the reason?”
The thoughtful eyes of Rosalie roved slowly over the scene, and then raised and fixed their earnest gaze upon her husband’s face, and she said—
“It is so. There is only one set of persons in the civilized world who are more unhappy than the negroes.”
“And they are”——