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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, mass’r, some folks says she am proud, case de common niggers 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, mass’r; brack as a boot.”

      “Is it straight hair?”

      “No, mass’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, mass’r, it curls—what folks call de wave.”

      “I understand; it falls down to her shoulders?”

      “Daat it do, mass’r, down to de berry small ob her back.”

      “Luxuriant?”

      “What am dat, mass’r?”

      “Thick—bushy.”

      “Golly! it am as bushy as de ole coon’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, mass’r—daat him bell—be back, ’gain in a minute, mass’r.”

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

      I lay reflecting on the singular—somewhat romantic—situation in which circumstances 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.

       Table of Contents

      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 passed from my lips; but, perhaps, only the last phrase was uttered loud enough to be heard. An ejaculation 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 Eugénie; beyond doubt the other was Aurore!

      “Your name!” said the astonished mistress.

      “My name!” repeated the equally astonished slave.

      “But how?—he knows your name—how?”

      “I cannot tell, ma’amselle.”

      “Have you been here before?”

      “No; not till this moment.”

      “ ’Tis very strange!” said the young lady, turning towards me with an inquiring glance.

      I was now awake, and in full possession of my senses—enough to perceive that I had been talking too loud. My knowledge of the quadroon’s name would require an explanation, and for the life of me I knew not what to say. To tell what I had been thinking—to account for the expressions I had uttered—would have placed me in a very absurd position; and yet to maintain silence might leave Ma’amselle Besançon busy with some strange thoughts. Something must be said—a little deceit was absolutely necessary.

      In hopes she would speak first, and, perchance, give me a key to what I should say, I remained for some moments without opening my lips. I pretended to feel pain from my wound, and turned uneasily on the bed. She seemed not to notice this, but remained in her attitude of surprise, simply repeating the words—

      “ ’Tis very strange he should know your name!”

      My imprudent speech had made an impression. I could remain silent no longer; and, turning my face once more, I pretended now for the first time to be aware of Mademoiselle’s presence, at the same time offering my congratulations, and expressing my joy at seeing her.

      After one or two anxious inquiries in relation to my wound, she asked—

      “But how came you to name Aurore?”

      “Aurore!” I replied. “Oh! you think it strange that I should know her name? Thanks to Scipio’s faithful portraiture, I knew at the first glance that this was Aurore.”

      I pointed to the quadroon, who had retired a pace or two, and stood silent and evidently astonished.

      “Oh! Scipio has been speaking of her?”

      “Yes, ma’amselle. He and I have had a busy morning of it. I have drawn largely on Scipio’s knowledge of plantation affairs. I am already acquainted with Aunt Chloe, and little Chloe, and a whole host of your people. These things interest me who am strange to your Louisiana life.”

      “Monsieur,” replied the lady, seemingly satisfied with

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