“I wonder who does. It is an imaginary tale got up for party purposes.”
“You are mistaken,” said Flora quietly. “That narrative is strictly true. I was staying the winter before last, with her mistress in London, and I wrote it myself from the woman’s own lips.”
“You!” and Mrs. Dalton started from the ground as though she had been bitten by a serpent—“and I have been talking all this time to the author of Mary P. From this moment, Madam, we must regard ourselves as strangers. No West Indian could for a moment tolerate the writer of that odious pamphlet.”
Mrs. Dalton retired to her berth, which was in the state cabin; and Flora lay awake for several hours, pondering over their conversation, until the morning broke, and the steamer cast anchor off Newhaven.
CHAPTER XX.
EDINBURGH.
The storm had passed away during the night; and at day-break, Flora hurried upon deck, to catch the first glance of—
“The glorious land of flood and fell,
The noble north countrie.”
The sun was still below the horizon, and a thick mist hung over the waters, and hid the city from her view. Oh, for the rising of that white curtain! how Flora tried to peer through its vapoury folds, to