Scipio hesitated a moment--"but--"

"Well?"

"I don't b'lieve, ma.s.s'r, daat's de reason."

"What, then?"

"Why, ma.s.s'r, to tell de troof, I b'lieve dar all bad men daat wanted to buy de gal."

Delicately as it was conveyed, I understood the insinuation.

"Ho! Aurore must be beautiful, then? Is it so, friend Scipio?"

"Ma.s.s'r, 'taint for dis ole n.i.g.g.e.r to judge 'bout daat; but folks dey say--bof white folks an black folks--daat she am de best-lookin' an hansomest quaderoom in all Loozyanna."

"Ha! a _quadroon_?"

"Daat are a fact, ma.s.s'r, daat same--she be a gal ob colour--nebber mind--she white as young missa herseff. Missa larf and say so many, many time, but fr'all daat dar am great difference--one rich lady-- t'other poor slave--jes like Ole Zip--ay, jes like Ole Zip--buy 'em, sell 'em, all de same."

"Could you describe Aurore, Scipio?"

It was not idle curiosity that prompted me to put this question. A stronger motive impelled me. The dream-face still haunted me--those features of strange type--its strangely-beautiful expression, not Caucasian, not Indian, not Asiatic. Was it possible--probable--

"Could you describe her, Scipio?" I repeated.

"'Scribe her, ma.s.s'r; daat what you mean? ye--yes."

I had no hope of a very lucid painting, but perhaps a few "points" would serve to identify the likeness of my vision. In my mind the portrait was as plainly drawn as if the real face were before my eyes. I should easily tell if Aurore and my dream were one. I began to think it was no dream, but a reality.

"Well, ma.s.s'r, some folks says she am proud, case de common n.i.g.g.e.rs envy ob her--daat's de troof. She nebber proud to Ole Zip, daat I knows--she talk to 'im, an tell 'im many tings--she help teach Ole Zip read, and de ole Chloe, and de leettle Chloe, an she--"

"It is a description of her person I ask for, Scipio."

"Oh! a 'scription ob her person--ye--daat is, what am she like?"

"So. What sort of hair, for instance? What colour is it?"

"Brack, ma.s.s'r; brack as a boot."

"Is it straight hair?"

"No, ma.s.s'r--ob course not--Aurore am a quaderoom."

"It curls?"

"Well, not dzactly like this hyar;" here Scipio pointed to his own kinky head-covering; "but for all daat, ma.s.s'r, it curls--what folks call de wave."

"I understand; it falls down to her shoulders?"

"Daat it do, ma.s.s'r, down to de berry small ob her back."

"Luxuriant?"

"What am dat, ma.s.s'r?"

"Thick--bushy."

"Golly! it am as bushy as de ole c.o.o.n's tail."

"Now the eyes?"

Scipio's description of the quadroon's eyes was rather a confused one.

He was happy in a simile, however, which I felt satisfied with: "Dey am big an round--dey shine like de eyes of a deer." The nose puzzled him, but after some elaborate questioning, I could make out that it was straight and small. The eyebrows--the teeth--the complexion--were all faithfully pictured--that of the cheeks by a simile, "like de red ob a Georgium peach."

Comic as was the description given, I had no inclination to be amused with it. I was too much interested in the result, and listened to every detail with an anxiety I could not account for.

The portrait was finished at length, and I felt certain it must be that of the lovely apparition. When Scipio had ended speaking, I lay upon my couch burning with an intense desire to see this fair--this priceless quadroon. Just then a bell rang from the house.

"Scipio wanted, ma.s.s'r--daat him bell--be back, 'gain in a minute, ma.s.s'r."

So saying, the negro left me, and ran towards the house.

I lay reflecting on the singular--somewhat romantic--situation in which circ.u.mstances had suddenly placed me. But yesterday--but the night before--a traveller, without a dollar in my purse, and not knowing what roof would next shelter me--to-day the guest of a lady, young, rich, unmarried--the invalid guest--laid up for an indefinite period; well cared for and well attended.

These thoughts soon gave way to others. The dream-face drove them out of my mind, and I found myself comparing it with Scipio's picture of the quadroon. The more I did so, the more I was struck with their correspondence. How could I have dreamt a thing so palpable? Scarce probable. Surely I must have seen it? Why not? Forms and faces were around me when I fainted and was carried in; why not hers among the rest? This was, indeed, probable, and would explain all. But was she among them? I should ask Scipio on his return.

The long conversation I had held with my attendant had wearied me, weak and exhausted as I was. The bright sun shining across my chamber did not prevent me from feeling drowsy; and after a few minutes I sank back upon my pillow, and fell asleep.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

THE CREOLE AND QUADROON.

I slept for perhaps an hour soundly. Then something awoke me, and I lay for some moments only half sensible to outward impressions.

Pleasant impressions they were. Sweet perfumes floated around me; and I could distinguish a soft, silky rustling, such as betokens the presence of well-dressed women.

"He wakes, ma'amselle!" half whispered a sweet voice.

My eyes, now open, rested upon the speaker. For some moments I thought it was but the continuation of my dream. There was the dream-face, the black profuse hair, the brilliant orbs, the arching brows, the small, curving lips, the damask cheek--all before me!

"Is it a dream? No--she breathes; she moves; she speaks!"

"See! ma'amselle--he looks at us! Surely he is awake!"

"It is no dream, then--no vision; it is she--it is Aurore!"

Up to this moment I was still but half conscious. The thought had pa.s.sed from my lips; but, perhaps, only the last phrase was uttered loud enough to be heard. An e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n that followed fully awoke me, and I now saw two female forms close by the side of my couch. They stood regarding each other with looks of surprise. One was Eugenie; beyond doubt the other was Aurore!