“A very good plan. If you love your grandfather so, Euphrosyne, how would you have loved your mother, if she had lived?”
“Had you a mother, when you were my age?”
“Yes, my dear. But do not let us speak of that. Do you remember your mamma, my dear?”
“Yes—a little. I remember her sitting in a wood—on the ground—with her head bent down upon her knees, and a great many black people about.”
“Well—tell me no more. I ought not to have asked you. I was not thinking of that horrid time.”
“But I do not mind telling you. I like to speak of it; and I never can to grandpapa—it makes him so ill. Mamma shook so, that I remember putting my arms about her to keep her warm, till I found how burning hot her hands were. My sisters were crying; and they told me not to ask any more why papa did not come to us; for he was dead. I remember being wakened by a noise when I was very sleepy, and seeing some soldiers. One of them lifted me up, and I was frightened, till I saw that, they were carrying mamma too. They put us both into a cart. I did not see my sisters; and I believe they were both dead then, of grief and hardship. And mamma never spoke again. She looked as pale as her gown, as she lay in the cart, with her eyes shut. She was breathing, however, and I thought she was asleep. I felt very sleepy and odd. The soldiers said I was half-starved, and they gave me a plantain that they pulled by the road-side. I wanted them to give some to mamma too; but they made me no answer. I put mine into her hand, but she let it fall; and I cried because she would not take any notice. Then one of the soldiers bade me eat my plantain; and I thought I must do as I was bid. I forget where we went next.”
“You remember more than I had supposed. Your mother was brought on board the ship where we were; and there she presently died.”
“You were on board ship, madam?”
“Yes—all the sisters—for the town was not considered safe, even for us.”
“And where was—” Euphrosyne stopped abruptly.