“May it be many years in the future, Maman,” murmured the young Marquise, whose voice betrayed a certain effort as she continued: “I thank you for the suggestion, Madame McVeigh; the property Maman refers to is in New 20 Orleans, and I surely hope to see your country some day; my sympathies are there.”
“We have many French people in the South; our own part of the land was settled originally by the cavaliers of France. You would not feel like a stranger there.”
“Not in your gracious neighborhood, Madame;”––her face had regained its color, and her eyes their brilliant expression.
“And there you would see living pictures like this,” suggested the Countess Helene; “what material for an artist!”
“Oh, no; in the rice fields of South Carolina they do not look like that. We have none of those Oriental effects in dress, you know. Our colored women look very sober in comparison; still they have their attractions, and might be an interesting study for you if you have never known colored folks.”
“Oh, but I have,” remarked the Marquise, smiling; “an entire year of my life was passed in a school with two from Brazil, and one from your country had run away the same season.”
“Judithe; child!”
The dowager fairly gasped the words, and the Marquise moved quickly to her side and sank on the cushion at her feet, looking up with an assuring smile, as she caressed the aged hand.
“Yes, it is quite true,” she continued; “but see, I am alive to tell the tale, and really they say the American was a most harmless little thing; the poor, imprisoned soul.”
“How strange!” exclaimed Mrs. McVeigh; “do you mean as fellow pupils?––colored girls! It seems awful.”