“Well; Sabby blieve he no hate you.”
“Hate me! no—no. Surely he could not do that!”
“Surely not,” was the reflection of the Creole, equally well-skilled in the qualities of women.
“How could he?” she thought, gazing upon her young mistress, with an eye that recognised in her a type of all that may be deemed angelic.
“Well, Missy Blanche,” she said, without declaring her thoughts, “whetha he like you or no, take Sabby advice, an’ no tell any one you hab de likin’ for him. I satin shoo dat not greeable to you fadder. It breed trouble—big trouble. Keep dis ting to youse—buried down deep in you own buzzum. No fear Sabby ’tray you. No, Missy Blanche; she tink you dear good child. She tan by you troo de tick and thin—for ebba.”
“Thanks, dear Sabby! I know you will; I know it.”
“Das’ de dinna bell. Now you must go down to drawin’-room; and doan make dat ere cousin ob yours angry. I mean Massa Cudamore. Berry ’trange young buckra dat. Hab temper ob de debbil an’ de cunnin’ ob a sarpint. If he ’spect you tink ’bout de Capten Maynad, he big trouble wit you fadder breed, shoo as snakes am snakes. So, Missy Blanche, you keep dark ’bout all dese tings, till de time come for confessin’ dem.”
Blanche, already dressed for dinner, descended to the drawing-room, but not before promising obedience to the injunction of her Creole confidante.