replied to her joyous, cordial salutation; and each passing day only makes this the more clear, as I silently observe the motherly spirit which induces her to visit the sick among the slaves herself, to send them the food, or allow them the little indulgence which they have wished for; as I have seen how daily on the piazza her chair is surrounded by dozens of little negro children who sit or creep at her feet, leap and play with one another around her, touching her white dress, coming and complaining to her just as familiarly as if they were her own children; seen the mutually joyful greetings between her and the negroes, both men and women, whom we meet in our walks; heard it also continually in her unpremeditated expressions, felt it in her heart, in the charm of the atmosphere which surrounds her beloved presence.
This evening, when she and I were returning in the twilight from a ramble in one of the woods of the plantation, we met a negro-woman.
“Oh, Francisca, Francisca!” exclaimed Madame C. cordially, and inquired from her in Spanish how she was, &c.
Francisca replied, with a beaming expression, that she was well, was happy, and hoped soon to present sua mercé with a beautiful little Negrito. She expected soon to become a mother. Mistress and servant could not have conversed more cordially in our own free country. The young anticipating mother was evidently certain that her child would, in the handsome white lady, meet with a motherly protector.
A little negro lad, who was one day playing with her youngest grandson, rushed up to her in a state of great excitement, complaining, “He calls me a negro without shame!” (un negre sans honte).
“Don't play any longer with him!” said Madame C., gravely. “Don't play with him now,” continued she, addressing the other negro boys around them. And the
