o right well,
Sarp,--'ta'n't much ob a 'sapp'intment,--I's use' to 'em,--I'd like for
to go wid you."

Lingering, irresolute, she stood up in the swaying skiff, keeping her
balance as if she were dancing; then, the motion, perhaps, throwing her
back into her old identity, she sprang to the shore like a cat. Sarp
laid Miss Emma beside her, and then shot away, back over all the
desolate reaches and lonely shining pools; and Flor, with a little wail
of despair, hid her face on the ground, that her weakened and bewildered
little mistress might not see the flood of tears that wet the grass
beneath it.

It was between two and three o'clock in the morning, when, chilled,
draggled, and dripping wet, they reached the house. Lights were moving
everywhere about it: no one had slept there that night. There was a
great shout from high and low as the two forlorn little objects crept
into the ray. Miss Emma was met with severe reproaches, afterwards with
tears and embraces; and cordial drinks and hot flannels were made ready
for her in a trice. As for Flor, she was warmed after another
fashion,--being sent off for punishment; and, in spite of the
implorations of Miss Emma and the interference of Miss Agatha, the order
was executed. It was the first time she had ever received such reward of
merit in form; and though it was a slight affair, after all, the hurt
and wrong rankled for weeks, and, instead of the gay, dancing imp of
former days, henceforth a silent, sullen shadow slipped about and
haunted all the dark places of the house.

Mas'r Henry, being a native of Charleston, was also a gentleman of
culture, and fond of the fine arts to some extent. Indeed, looking at it
in a poetical view, the feudality of slavery, even more than the
inevitable relation of property, was his strong tie to the institution.
He had a contempt for modern progress so deeply at the root of his
opinions that he was only half aware of it; and any impossible scheme to
restore the political condition of what we call the Dark Ages, and
retain the comforts of the present one, would have found in him a hearty
advocate. One of his favorite books was a little green-covered volume,
printed on coarse paper, and smelling of the sea which it had crossed: a
book that seemed to bring one period of those past centuries up like a
pageant,--so vividly, with all the flying dust of their struggle in the
sunbeam before him, did its opulent vitality reproduce, in their
splend