"O you get out. What you talk 'bout bobolishenis anyhow? Think you're mighty smart nigger, don't ye? It's my opinion ye don't know nothin'—that's all." And Aunt Lizzy moved away with the air of one who did understand and utterly despised one who was not as fortunate as herself, as the toss of her lofty turban perfectly demonstrated.
"'Specks old woman, ye'd jus' like to know all what dis nig' duz. 'Mighty smart! He—he—he! Gals ain't 'speeted to know nothin' no how," and Pete, who was the especial favorite of his young master, turned away from his unappreciative auditor with all the dignity supposed to have been handed over to him with the last suit of young massa's cast-off clothing in which he was pompously arrayed.
Just then the soft folds of a white dress peeped out from behind the foliage of the "Prairie Queen," which scrambled about in native abandonment everywhere over the corridor on one side of the moss-covered terrace. Pete saw it as it waved in the noonday breeze, which was scarcely sufficient to move a leaf or flower, so stealthily it came ladened with its burden of perfume. Discovering that some one was so near, the astonished slave was about to retreat in much confusion, when Grace Stanley stepped from behind the massive vine and stood before him.
Evidently there had been tears in her brilliant eyes that were unused to weeping, but they had succeeded only in leaving transparent shadows over their brightness. Sad traces, to be sure, of what had been, as well as presentiments of what might be. Her soft cheek wore a deeper tint than was usual to it, and her long lashes drooped lower, casting a sombre shade beneath them, and that was all. Yet the little heart, all unused to sorrow, throbbed beneath the pure white bodice with a wound it seemingly had not the power to bind up. She had come to Rosedale as free and joyous as the birds that flitted among the orange blossoms where the zephyrs were then gathering their sweets, and the future over which her feet would gladly tread decked with the brightest and sweetest flowers, among which the trailing serpent had never for a moment showed his treacherous head; but she had found that the blossom of hope will wither and the golden sunshine fade; and this consciousness had pierced her sensitive nature as a cruel dart, and the pain had made her cheek tear-stained and brought shadows of disappointment. She had met George St. Clair two years before her present visit, and thought him the most noble and true of all his sex, and who can tell of the dreams that came uninvited into her nightly visions as well as in her peaceful day reveries? Can you, gentle reader? There comes a day to us all when the kaleidoscope of every heart's experience gives a sudden turn as it presents to view more complex minglings of brilliant colors and perplexing designs than has ever been seen in any previous whirl, weird fancies through which we are all looking.
Grace Stanley had been watching their ever changing glow until the brilliant tints had imprinted their rosy hues over every hope and promise of her life; but on this very morning there had been another turn, and the sombre shades were now uppermost. He loved "Lily-Bell," and had flown from her presence a rejected lover, but without one word of farewell to her. "My country shall henceforth be my bride," she had heard him say, and who could tell what the terrible war might bring to them all. He was gone, and this fact alone was sufficient to sadden her future, still "no one shall know it," she thought as she walked across the garden and stepped upon the moss-covered terrace. "This hour shall be covered from sight forever, even from myself." She had grown calm as she stood there listening to the conversation just outside, and with a faint smile flitting among the sombre tints of sadness that were retreating from her pretty face, she bluntly asked the bewildered Pete—
"What did I hear you say about Master George?"
She had drawn more closely the thick veil of indifference, and suddenly her face was wreathed in smiles as she stood there looking into the dark, perplexed visage of the scared negro boy; just as flowers will grow and thrive in beauty on the graves where our idols lie buried.
"O nothin', Miss Grace—nothin', nothin' at all. But he did make Spit-fire look buful, sartin, sure. Gorry! didn't she go, tho'? Dat's all, Miss Grace, sure dat's all."
"I thought I heard you say something about his going to shoot the abolitionists, Pete, was I mistaken? Do you know what they are?"
"Don't know nothin', Miss Grace, sartin. 'Spects dey be somethin' what hunts a nigger mighty sharp, 'cause I heard Massa Charles say he'll pop 'em over—dat's all, young missus, sartin, sure, dat's all."