The future of her mother’s race wuz to her plain and distinct, lit with light failin’ from the new heavens on the new earth that she felt awaited her people.
The inspired prophecies to her pointed to their redemption and the upbuilding of a New Republic, where this warm-hearted, emotional, beauty-lovin’ race should come to their own, and, civilized and enlightened, become a great people, a nation truly brought out of great tribulations.
She grew up unlike any other girl, more beautiful than any other—so said every one who saw her. A mind different from any other—impractical perhaps, but prophetic, impassioned, delicate, sorrowful, inspired.
When she became old enough she followed her mother’s callin’ of nursin’ the sick, and it seemed indeed as if her slight hands held the gift of healin’ in them, so successful wuz she.
Guarded by her mother as daintily as if she wuz the daughter of a queen, she grew up to womanhood as innocent as Eve wuz when the garden wuz new.
She turned away almost in disgust from the attention of young men, white or colored.
But about a year before I went to Belle Fanchon she had met her king. And to her, truly, Victor wuz a crowned monarch. And the love that sprung up in both their hearts the moment they looked in each other’s eyes wuz as high and pure and ideal an attachment as wuz ever felt by man or woman.
Victor wuz the son of a white man and a colored woman, but he showed the trace of his mother’s ancestry as little as did Genieve.
His mother wuz a handsome mulatto woman, the nurse and constant attendant of the wife of Col. Seybert, whose handsome place, Seybert Court, could jest be seen from the veranda of Belle Fanchon.