"She is."
"Dead, far from her child, who was not even permitted to weep for her."
"Thank Heaven that you do not curse her memory," murmured Toby, rising.
"Curse her!" exclaimed Cora; "Would that I could embrace her, as I do you," she added, throwing her arms about the old man's neck.
"Me, Miss Cora! Me, a mulatto!" remonstrated Toby, gently repulsing her.
"What of that? Does not the same blood flow in our veins? Are we not of the same down-trodden race? Ah, speak, speak, Toby, you knew my mother; tell me of her; you see I am calm, I can listen."
She drew the mulatto to one of the garden chairs, and, forcing him to sit down, placed herself at his feet; her hand in his; her eyes raised to his face.
"Francilia was but fifteen years of age," Toby began, "when a slave merchant brought her to Mr. Leslie; she was a quadroon, beautiful as you are, though her skin was not so white. She had long black hair, and large dark eyes, whose sweet and gentle glance I can see again in yours. She was at first employed in the service of Mrs. Leslie. Oh, Heaven! Poor child, how happy and light-hearted she was then; her joyous voice warbling the soft melodies of her nation; her merry laugh ringing through the corridors of the house. I saw her, and I dared to love her! That time was the happiest of my life, for she too loved me. Fools that we were. What right has the slave to love? The slave who belongs to another. One day, Francilia left for Saint Louis, with her master and mistress. They were to be absent some weeks. I was to remain behind. In bidding me farewell she left me this silver ring, which I wear on my finger. I would give it you, dear mistress, but I have sworn to keep it till my death. When Francilia—returned—she—"
The slave paused, overcome by emotion.
"Speak, speak, Toby!" said Cora.