The mulatto fell on his knees at the feet of his young mistress, and cried imploringly:
"Miss Cora, in the name of mercy, do not look at me thus."
"Toby, tell me," murmured Cora, in a voice hoarse with emotion; "who was my mother?"
"Mistress, dear mistress, for pity's sake do not ask me. I have promised not to reveal—"
"You said just now that you loved me," answered Cora; "if you spoke the truth, prove your affection; tell me who was my mother."
"Your mother—" faltered the slave; "no, no, I cannot, I dare not."
"But I command you—nay, I implore."
"Your mother—was called—Francilia."
"Oh, merciful Heaven, have pity upon me!" cried Cora, hiding her face in her hands; then, after a long pause—she said sorrowfully—
"And I did not even know the name of my mother. Francilia! A slave! This, then, is the secret of my life. Alas! She is dead: is she not?"