“Oh! worse and worse! I resemble a Maroon? Gracious me! Surely you are jesting, Yola?”
“Oh! missa, he beauty man; roun black eyes that glance like the fire-fly in the wood—eyes like yours—berry like you eyes, missa.”
“Come, silly girl!” said the young lady, speaking in a tone of reproval, more affected than real; “do you know that it is very naughty of you, to compare me to a man—much more to a Maroon?”
“Oh! Missa Kate, he beauty man—berry beauty man.”
“That I doubt very much; but even were it so, you should not speak of his resembling me.”
“Me pardon, missa. I no more so say.”
“No, you had better not, good Yola. If you do, I shall ask papa to sell you.”
This was said in a tone of gentle raillery, which told that any intention of carrying out the threat was far from the speaker’s thoughts.
“By the bye, Yola,” continued the young lady, “I could get a good price for you. How much do you suppose I was offered for you the other day?”
“Missa Kate, I no know. Allah forbid me you ebber leave! If you no more my missa, I care no more live.”