“Bless you, massa, you don’t need no invitation, nor evenin’ dress needer! You just go as you are, an’ it’s all right.”
“But I have no wish to go. I would rather prepare for an early start to-morrow.”
“Das a prutty house we’s a-comin’ to, massa,” said Quashy, not hearing, or ignoring, the last remark.
Lawrence looked up with a start. Unwittingly, quite unwittingly, he had rambled in the direction of the villa with the rustic porch!
“An’ dere’s de missis ob de villa, I suppose,” said Quashy. “No, she’s on’y a redskin. Why, massa!” he continued, opening his eyes to their widest, “it’s Manuela—or her ghost!”
It was indeed our little Indian heroine, walking alone in the shrubbery. She had not observed her late companions, who were partly concealed by bushes.
“Quashy,” said Lawrence, impressively, laying his hand on the negro’s shoulder, “get out of the way. I want to speak to her alone,—to say good-bye, you know, for we start early to-morrow.”
The negro promptly threw himself on the ground and nodded his head.
“You go ahead, massa. All right. When you comes dis way agin, you’ll find dis nigger am vanisht like a wreaf ob smoke.”
A few seconds more, and Lawrence suddenly appeared before Manuela. She met him without surprise, but with an embarrassed look. Instantly a dark chilling cloud seemed to settle down on the poor youth’s spirit. Mingled with a host of other indescribable feelings, there was one, very strong, of indignation; but with a violent effort he controlled his features, so as to indicate no feeling at all.