With the creamy skin, the full, soft features, the mellow voice, and impassioned nature of her quadroon mother, Lilly had inherited the fiery Celtic hair, gray-green eyes, and quick intelligence of her father.
She contrived to go to school, where her cleverness placed her ahead of other girls of her age, but did not raise her above the unreasoning aversion of her school-mates; and the consciousness of this rankled in the child's soul, giving to her face a pathetic, hunted look, and to her tongue a sharpness which few cared to encounter.
Those who knew her best—her teachers, and a few who would not let their inborn and unconquerable prejudice of race stand in the way of their judgment—knew that, with all her faults of temper, the girl was brave, and truthful, and warm-hearted. They pitied the child, born under a shadow which could never be lifted, and gave her freely the kind words for which her heart secretly longed.
There was little else they could do, for every attempt at other kindness was repelled with a proud indifference which forbade further overtures. So she had gone her way, walking in the shadow which darkened and deepened as she grew older, until at last she stood upon the threshold of womanhood.
It was at this period of her life that the incidents we have related occurred. Small as they were, they proved a crisis in the girl's life. Too much a child to be capable of forming a definite resolve, or rather, perhaps, of putting it into form and deliberately setting about its fulfilment, still the sensitive nature had received an impression, which became a most puissant influence in shaping her life.
A change came over her, so great as to have escaped no interested eyes; but interested eyes were few.
Her teachers, more than any others, marked the change. There was more care of her person and dress, and the raillery of her school-mates was met by an indifference which, however hard its assumption may have been, at once disarmed and puzzled them.
Now and then, the low and unprovoked taunts of her boyish tormentors roused her to an outburst of the old spirit, but for the most part they were met only with a flash of the steel-gray eyes, and a curl of the full red lips.
One Sunday, too, to the amazement of pupils and the embarrassment of teachers, Lilly O'Connell, neatly attired and quite self-possessed, walked into the Sunday-school, from which she had angrily departed, stung by some childish slight, two years before. The minister went to her, welcomed her pleasantly, and gave her a seat in a class of girls of her own age, who, awed by the mingled dignity and determination of his manner, swallowed their indignation, and moved along—a trifle more than was necessary—to give her room.
The little tremor of excitement soon subsided, and Lilly's quickness and attentiveness won for her an outward show, at least, of consideration and kindness, which extended outside of school limits, and gradually, all demonstrations of an unpleasant nature ceased.