"was lost."

"Was she?"

"Why ... wasn't she? Mammy Joy says my uncle--in the blazing
pilot-house--did you know my uncle Dan?"

"Yes. That night, half an hour before the burning----"

"Oh! was it at night?"

"Yes. I was sitting with Phyllis, behind him, with him at the wheel, as
we're sitting now behind Mr. Watson."

"Uncle Dan didn't hate you, did he?"

"No, indeed."

"Then why didn't you tell him about Phyllis? He was her master, you
know."

"I did. He wormed it out of me. He was like you--in some things."

The questioner flashed and stared but then dropped her eyes. "Did
he--have red curls?"

"Yes, redder than yours."

"Humph!" ... She mused.... "I'm tired here. Let's go down by the
Gilmores and walk--'thortships!"

They went. "Well?--about Phyllis? What did she whip you for? Being bad?"

"Bad or good was all one to Phyllis."

"Wasn't--weren't--weren't you ever bad, Mr. Hugh?"

"Frequently."

"How were you bad?--steal jam?--eat green plums?"

"Yes; had fights, went in swimming--in snake holes----"

"D'd you tease your sisters?--pull their hair?--let the sawdust out o'
their dolls?"

"Yes, yes, all that."

"Hmm! that's nothing. Basile and I--Ain't you going on? Of course, if
you don't want to I--I shan't worm. Why did Phyllis--oh, pshaw!"

With the exclamation came such one-sided mirth that Mrs. Gilmore looked
round. But her husband said there would never be anything to look round
for while "that laugh" kept its quality.

Presently Hugh found himself murmurously "going on" and Ramsey
listening. It was a great moment in both lives. If we cannot see it so,
no matter; but in still depths of perception below all formulated
thought both the youth and the girl were aware, separately, that the
story of Phyllis was not the largest fruit of the hour.

Phyllis, Hugh said, had not hated him alone. In her heart had burned a
pure flame of wrath against every member--save one--of the fair race to
which she belonged by three-fourths of her blood but by not one word of
human law. Wronged for the race she disclaimed, she hated the race that
disclaimed her. Hated even the mothers of Hugh and Ramsey, who abhorred
slavery, a slavery enthralling men, women, children in whose veins ran
not four only but eight and sixteen times as much masters' blood as
slaves'. She hated them because all their sweet abhorrence found no
deliverance or revenge for her. Mitigations there were, but mitigations
she loathed. The