"Angry with you!" exclaimed Cora; "but tell me—my father, where is he? Do not detain me longer when I should rush into his dear arms!"
"Your father—!" A sudden change came over the slave's manner. "Your father, Miss Cora! He thinks you still in the free English country, and when he hears that you have returned—" The negro paused, with an embarrassed countenance, as he uttered these words.
"What then?" cried Cora. "If I have returned without his knowledge, am I not his daughter; and who, in his hour of sorrow, has a better right to be at his side?"
"Yes, Miss Cora, but—"
"Tell me where is he?"
"In that room, Miss Cora," answered the negro, gravely, pointing to the door of the study.
Without waiting for another word, Cora softly opened the door, and gliding into the room, stood for a moment mutely regarding her father. The Venetian shutters were closed, and a shaded lamp burned upon the planter's desk—a lamp that left the room in shadow, and threw its full light upon the care-worn face of Gerald Leslie. The papers before him lay unheeded on his desk, with a half-burned cigar by their side. His finely molded chin rested upon his hand, his brow was contracted by painful thoughts, and his dark brown eyes were fixed gloomily upon the ground.
He had not heard Cora's entrance. The young girl crept softly to his side, and dropping on her knees at his feet, clasping her hands about his left arm, which hung loosely over the arm of his chair.
"Father," she murmured, "dearest father!"
It was with no exclamation of joy, but with a cry of something nearer akin to agony, that the planter turned and beheld his only daughter.