--think
of it; and she your own daughter!"

Untouched by his child's words, Delancey turned away, every vein
swelling with the wrath which he could not conceal.

"I'll teach you both to carry on your private dealings with dastardly
clerks. Back to your room, and leave this heap of bloody flesh and rags
for the negroes to care for."

"Shame on you, papa. No! I shall not leave her for a moment. With regard
to this poor child, your authority is as naught to me."

"That remains to be seen," returned Mr. Delancey, in his cold, deep
tones; and, stepping to the stairhead, he called Voltaire to his
presence.

At this moment Minny drew a long, shivering sigh, looked up, and met her
mistress's tearful gaze with a smile.

"They are safe, Miss--all safe; he could not get them," she whispered,
faintly.

"Hush, Minny, darling. Oh, you have suffered so terribly for my sake!
This is dreadful, dreadful!"

"Anything for you, Miss Della, anything."

Della's only answer was a closer pressure of that young form to her
heart.

"Now," said Mr. Delancey, approaching them, with Voltaire walking behind
them: "now, Minny, up with you, and get yourself out of my sight; and,
mark me! you may get your back ready for another scourging unless you
give me those papers before to-morrow."

"Papa, you _know_ Minny isn't able to walk. Let Voltaire carry her."

"Well, up with her, then. Take her to some of the negroes' rooms, and
let her lie there till she repents of her obstinacy."

"Voltaire," said Della, stepping forward, "take her to _my_ room, and
put her upon my bed. Go!"

The negro obeyed, and Mr. Delancey offered no opposition. There was a
look in his daughter's eye which he had never seen there before, an
imperative manner which enforced command, and he allowed the man to pass
him, bearing the bleeding and exhausted Minny in his arms.

"Now, Della," said he, turning to his child, "follow her. Until I can
get this vile piece of romance out of your head, you shall remain a
prisoner in your own room. Shame on you for your want of pride!"

"Thank Heaven, papa, that I have no more."

They parted--father and daughter there--both turning their heads, as
they passed, to look back upon each other; then went from sight,
silently and coldly.

CHAPTER XXXII.

"All the world's a stage."

"Oh, Massa Gulian," said Jeff, one day, following Guly, who had entirely
recovered from his illness, to his room, "what shall I ever do, Mass