"'T'ank you, honey,' sez I, 'dey's pretty well, bof ob dem.'
"An' den Marse Drummin' he pulled her arm right troo his'n, and marched her off wid him; an' den I pitched de kittens right in de water an' come home."
"Well, dat ar warn't much," said the skeptical Lem. "Dey might be walkin' on de beach, but that ain't by no means courtin'. Marse Drummin' walk wid her, 'cause Miss Sibyl's gone, an' he ain't got nobody else to talk to."
"'Cisely so, chile; but dat ain't all," says Aunt Moll. "Dis berry mornin', as I was passin' troo de hall, de sittin'-room door was open, and I heered voices a talkin' dere; so I listened and peeked in, an' dar was Marse Drummin', rampin' up and down, a talking to hisself."
"Well, dat ain't nothin', eider," said the still contradictory Lem. "I've hearn dat ar Carl talk to hisself when Miss Tom sent him out to work; an' he ain't in love wid no one."
"But listen, honey, and don't you be puttin' me out so, 'cause 'tain't 'spectful—'deed it ain't," said Aunt Moll, getting slightly indignant. "As I was sayin', I clapt my ear to de door, an' I heered him sayin' jes' as plain as nothin' 'tall;
"'Oh, dischanting, onwildering Chrissy! ef I had nebber met you, I might yet be happy!' Dar, what he say dat for ef he warn't in lub?"
This last was a settler. Lem felt that his mother had the best of the argument, and unwilling to seem defeated, he went out, leaving the old lady to enjoy her triumph.
Three days had passed since the departure of Sibyl, and certainly Willard's conduct seemed to justify Aunt Moll's suspicions. Unable to break the thrall which bound him, wishing, yet unable to fly from the spell of the enchantress, he lingered still by her side. There were shame, dishonor, sin, in remaining, but oh! there were death, misery, and desolation in going. All worldly considerations, her unknown birth, her obscure connections, her lowly rank, were swept away like walls of cobweb before the fierce torrent of passion that overwhelmed, conquered every other feeling in its impetuous tide.
And she loved him, this angel of beauty, this fairy princess of the isle; he could see it in the quick flush of joy at his approach, the quick, burning glances shot from her beautiful eyes, more quickly averted when they met his—her low, impassioned tones, her bright, beautiful blushes. There was joy, there was rapture in the thought; and yet, unless he forgot honor, vows, all that should have been sacred, what did this love avail?