could go down, I think at moments, down to New Orleans itself, with a brain and lips of fire, and speak words you know how I could speak them - which would bring me in a week to the scourge, perhaps to the stake. The scourge I could endure. Have I not felt it already? Do I not bear its scars even now, and glory in them; for they were won by speaking as a woman should speak? And even the fire ! - Have not women been martyrs already? and could not I be one? Might not my torments madden a people into manhood, and my name become a war-cry in the sacred fight? And yet, oh my friend, life is sweet! and my little day has been so dark and gloomy! may I not have one hour's sunshine ere youth and vigor are gone, and my swiftvanishing Southern womanhood wrinkles itself up into despised old age? Oh, counsel me, - help me, my friend, my preserver, my true master now, so brave, so wise, so all-knowing; under whose mask of cynicism lies hid (have I not cause to know it?) the heart of a hero.

"MARIE."

If Miss Heale could have watched Tom's face as he read, much more could she have heard his words as he finished, all jealousy would have passed from her mind: for as he read, the cynical smile grew sharper and sharper, forming a fit prelude for the "Little fool!" which was his only

comment.

"I thought you would have fallen in love with some honest farmer years ago: but a martyr you sha'n't be, even if I have to send for you hither; though how to get you bread to eat I don't know. However, you have been reading your book, it seems, clever enough you always were, and too clever; so you could go out as governess, or something. Why, here's a postscript dated three

months afterwards! Ah, I see; this letter was written last July, in answer to my Australian one. What's the meaning of this?" And he began reading again.

"I wrote so far; but I had not the heart to send it; it was so full of repinings. And since then, — must I tell the truth? - I have made a step; do not call it a desperate one; do not blame me, for your blame I cannot bear but I have gone on the stage. There was no other means of independence open to me; and I had a dream, I have it still, that there, if anywhere, I might do my work. You told me that I might become a great actress: I have set my heart on becoming one; on learning to move the hearts of men, till the time comes when I can tell them, show them, in living flesh and blood, upon the stage, the secrets of a slave's sorrows, and that slave a woman. The time has not come for that yet here: but I have had my success already, more than I could have expected; and not only in Canada, but in the States. I have been at New York, acting to crowded houses. Ah, when they applauded me, how I longed to speak! to pour out my whole soul to them, and call upon them, as men, to But that will come in time. I have found a friend, who has promised to write dramas especially for me. Merely republican ones at first; in which I can give full vent to my passion, and hurl forth the eternal laws of liberty, which their consciences may must at last, apply for themselves. But soon, he says, we shall be able to dare to approach the real subject, if not in America, still in Europe; and then, I trust, the colored actress will stand forth as the championess of her race, of all who are oppressed, in every capital in Europe, save, alas! Italy and the Austria who crushes her. I have taken, I should tell you, an Italian name. It was better,

I thought, to hide my African taint, forsooth, for a while. So the wise New Yorkers have been fêting, as Maria Cordifiamma, the white woman (for am I not fairer than many an Italian signora ?), whom they would have looked on as an inferior being under the name of Marie Lavington: though there is finer old English blood running in my veins, from your native Berkshire they say, than in many a Down-Easter's who hangs upon my lips. Address me henceforth, then, as La Signora Maria Cordifiamma. I am learning fast, by the by, to speak Italian. I shall be at Quebec till the end of the month. Then, I believe, I come to London; and we shall meet once more; and I shall thank you, thank you, thank you, once more, for all your marvellous kindness."

"Humph!" said Tom, after a while. "Well, she is old enough to choose for herself. Five-andtwenty she must be by now. . . . As for the stage, I suppose it is the best place for her; better, at least, than turning governess, and going mad, as she would do, over her drudgery and her dreams. But who is this friend? Singing-master, scribbler, or political refugee? or perhaps all three together? A dark lot, those fellows. I must keep my eye on him, though it's no concern of mine. I've done my duty by the poor thing; the devil himself can't deny that. But somehow, if this playwriting worthy plays her false, I feel very much as if I should be fool enough to try whether I have forgotten my pistol-shooting."

Vol. 10-H

CHAPTER VI

AN OLD FOE WITH A NEW FACE

HIS child's head is dreadfully hot; and

“TH how yellow he does look!" says Mrs.

Vavasour, fussing about in her little nursery. "Oh, Clara, what shall I do? I really dare not give them any more medicine myself; and that horrid old Dr. Heale is worse than no one."

"Ah, ma'am," says Clara, who is privileged to bemoan herself, and to have sad confidences made to her, "if we were but in town now, to see Mr. Chilvers, or any one that could be trusted; but in this dreadful out-of-the-way place"

"Don't talk of that, Clara! Oh, what will become of the poor children?" And Mrs. Vavasour sits down and cries, as she does three times at least every week.

"But indeed, ma'am, if you thought you could trust him, there is that new assistant

"The man who was saved from the wreck? Why, nobody knows who he is."

"Oh, but indeed, ma'am, he is a very nice gentleman, I can say that; and so wonderfully clever; and has cured so many people already, they say, and got down a lot of new medicines (for he has great friends among the doctors in town), and such a wonderful magnifying glass, with which he showed me himself, as I dropped into the shop

promiscuous, such horrible things, ma'am, in a drop of water, that I haven't dared hardly to wash my face since."

"And what good will the magnifying glass do to us?" says the poor little Irish soul, laughing up through its tears. "He won't want it to see how ill poor Frederick is, I'm sure; but you may send for him, Clara."

"I'll go myself, ma'am, and make sure," says Clara; glad enough of a run, and chance of a chat with the young doctor.

And in half an hour Mr. Thurnall is announced. Though Mrs. Vavasour has a flannel apron on (for she will wash the children herself, in spite of Elsley's grumblings), Tom sees that she is a lady; and puts on, accordingly, his very best manner, which, as his experience has long since taught him, is no manner at all.

He does his work quietly and kindly, and bows himself out.

"You will be sure to send the medicine immediately, Mr. Thurnall."

"I will bring it myself, madam; and, if you like, administer it. I think the young gentleman has made friends with me sufficiently already."

Tom keeps his word, and is back, and away again to his shop, in a marvellously short space, having "struck a fresh root," as he calls it; for

"What a very well-behaved sensible man that Mr. Thurnall is," says Lucia to Elsley, an hour after, as she meets him coming in from the garden, where he has been polishing his "Wreck." "I am sure he understands his business; he was so kind and quiet, and yet so ready, and seemed to know all the child's symptoms beforehand, in