“What do you want, Pluto?” inquired his owner.
“Ho, ho! Massr Woodley, dis chile want nuffin ’t all. Only look in t’ tell Missa Looey dat soon’s she done eat her brekfass de spotty am unner de saddle, all ready for chuck de bit into him mouf. Ho! ho! dat critter do dance ’bout on de pave stone as ef it wa’ mad to ’treak it back to de smoove tuff ob de praira.”
“Going out for a ride, Louise?” asked the planter with a shadow upon his brow, which he made but little effort to conceal.
“Yes, papa; I was thinking of it.”
“You must not.”
“Indeed!”
“I mean, that you must not ride out alone. It is not proper.”
“Why do you think so, papa? I have often ridden out alone.”
“Yes; perhaps too often.”
This last remark brought the slightest tinge of colour to the cheeks of the young Creole; though she seemed uncertain what construction she was to put upon it.