"My own dear mother, the curse recoiled upon her own head, for she died mad. It never reached you, who did not in any way deserve it. It was you that was wronged, not her, I am sure."
"Yes, yes, it was I that was wronged! It was I that was wronged! I came to my master with his other property—with his land, and with his negroes. I had no mother, for my mother died when I was but seven years old. I was brought up by an old negro, named Dinah. I was but fourteen years old when I came into the possession of my master, along with his patrimony."
"Don't look upon things in that light, mother; don't talk in that wild, imbittered way," said Valentine, taking both her hands, and looking gently and fondly on her. But she snatched her hands away, and covered her face, and was silent for awhile—then she spoke:
"I know it hurts you. I know it goes to your heart like a knife; but it is true, true as—as that I might have been tempted to take your life and my own, had I seen how this was to end!"
"I am very glad you did not, mother, I am sure."
"Will you always say so?"
"As I hope to be saved, yes, mother," replied the youth, half smiling, to raise her spirits.
"Ah, you think so now. Will you think so in the future?"
"Yes, mother! I will pledge you my word to think no other way forever, if that will satisfy you."
"Yet, oh, Valley! that Spanish woman's dying curse! It haunts me now upon this day of the fall of all my hopes for you; it haunts me, it hangs over me like a funeral pall! It oppresses and darkens all my soul!"