"You do not mean—"
"Yes; her mother was a quadroon," in a trembling whisper.
Did he hear that strange gasping sigh, as of a dumb creature struck by a mortal blow, that he so quickly and abruptly exclaimed:
"Where is she now?"
"Out calling. I did not dare speak of this while she was in the house, for fear the very walls would betray the secret. She must never know it, never! It would ruin her life, kill her, my poor, proud child!"
Her voice broke in tears.
"Tell me the whole story," said the priest gently, but with authority.
"Yes, yes; that is what I am longing to do. The secret has become a burden to me: I want to be assured that I have acted rightly about her marriage. You remember my husband's brother, Lawrence Capelle?"
"Well, very well; a handsome young fellow, but rather wild."
"And lovable with it all. He died while my husband and I were in France—we were there three years—and before his death he wrote to Anthony, begging him to look after the welfare of a child, a baby, and giving the history of his attachment to a beautiful quadroon in New Orleans. Her mother had been a slave, but this girl had been born free, received a very good education, and grew up superior to her class. She had loved him with rare faith and tenderness, and died at the birth of the child."