“What is it, Freeman?”
“They are stowing the luggage between decks, Sir George; and want to know what pieces your excellency wishes to be kept for the state-rooms. I’ve put aside the black bag and the yellow portmanteau, and the large one with Miss Blanche’s things. The bullock trunk? Is it to go below, Sir George?”
“Why, yes—no. Stay! What a bother! I must go down myself. Sabina! keep close by the child. Here, Blanche! you can sit upon this cane seat; and Sabina will hold the umbrella over you. Don’t move away from here till I come back.”
Sir George’s assiduous care may be understood, by saying that Blanche was his daughter—his only child.
Laying hold of the brass baluster-rail, and sliding his hand along it; he descended the stair, followed by Freeman.
Blanche sat down as directed; the mulatto opening a light silk umbrella and holding it over her head. It was not raining; only to protect her from the sun.
Looking at Blanche, one could not wonder at Sir George being so particular. She was a thing to be shielded. Not that she appeared of delicate health, or in any way fragile. On the contrary, her form showed strength and rotundity unusual for a girl of thirteen. She was but little over it.
Perhaps it was her complexion he was thinking of. It certainly appeared too precious to be exposed to the sun.
And yet the sun had somewhere played upon, without spoiling it. Rather was it improved by the slight embrowning, as the bloom enriches the skin of the apricot. He seemed to have left some of his rays amidst the tresses of her hair, causing them to shine like his own glorious beams.
She remained upon the seat where her father had left her. The position gave her a fine view of the bay and its beautiful shores, of Staten Island and its villas, picturesquely placed amidst groves of emerald green.