n, to--. But that will come in time. I have found a
friend, who has promised to write dramas especially for me. Merely
republican ones at first; in which I can give full vent to my passion,
and hurl forth the eternal laws of liberty, which their consciences
may--must--at last, apply for themselves. But soon, he says, we shall
be able to dare to approach the real subject, if not in America, still
in Europe; and then, I trust, the coloured actress will stand forth
as the championess of her race, of all who are oppressed, in every
capital in Europe, save, alas! Italy and the Austria who crushes her.
I have taken, I should tell you, an Italian name. It was better, I
thought, to hide my African taint, forsooth, for awhile. So the wise
New Yorkers have been feting, as Maria Cordifiamma, the white woman
(for am I not fairer than many an Italian signora?), whom they
would have looked upon as an inferior being under the name of Marie
Lavington: though there is finer old English blood running in
my veins, from your native Berkshire, they say, than in any a
Down-Easter's who hangs upon my lips. Address me henceforth, then, as
La Signora Maria Cordifiamma. I am learning fast, by the by, to speak
Italian. I shall be at Quebec till the end of the month. Then, I
believe, I come to London; and we shall meet once more: and I shall
thank you, thank you, thank you, once more, for all your marvellous
kindness."

"Humph!" said Tom, after a while. "Well, she is old enough to choose
for herself. Five-and-twenty she must be by now.... As for the stage,
I suppose it is the best place for her; better, at least, than turning
governess, and going mad, as she would do, over her drudgery and
her dreams. But who is this friend? Singing-master, scribbler, or
political refugee? or perhaps all three together? A dark lot, those
fellows. I must keep my eye on him; though it's no concern of mine.
I've done my duty by the poor thing; the devil himself can't deny
that. But, somehow, if this play-writing worthy plays her false, I
feel very much as if I should be fool enough to try whether I have
forgotten my pistol-shooting."

CHAPTER VI.

AN OLD FOE WITH A NEW FACE.

"This child's head is dreadfully hot; and how yellow he does look!"
says Mrs. Vavasour, fussing about in her little nursery. "Oh, Clara,
what shall I do? I really dare not give them any more medicine myself;
and that horrid old Doctor Heale is worse than no one."

"Ah, ma'am," say