lossy as the yellow floss
threads of pale, ripe Indian-corn--beautiful, even in its dishevelled
and drenched condition, as an artist's dream. Devoid as it was of
regular beauty, the face beneath, with its clear blue eyes, red lips,
and pure complexion, the pink and white that reminds one of a sweet-pea
or ocean-shell, had struck me as very lovely from the first; nothing to
support this ground work of excellence had I discovered, however, either
in the form of the head, which was ignoble, or the expression of the
face, which was both timid and defiant, or the tones of the voice, which
were shrill and harsh by turns--yet, as my fellow-voyager and sufferer,
I was interested in this young creature, not forgetting, either, her
attention during my pending swoon, of which mention has been made.

"I am going to the party, whatever the preacher may say, and whether
Captain Ambrose wills it or no. I am under his care and protection, you
see, to go to New York to my aunt, Madame Du Vert, the famous milliner,
and I am to learn her trade. Her name is Greene, so they call her Du
Vert, to make out that she is French--_vert_ is _green_, in French, you
see; or so they tell me. Now, Captain Ambrose is a church-member, too,
and he does not want dancing on his ship, and so he made the calkers
pitch the deck--that was to break up the ball, you know; but don't tell
any one this for the 'land's sake,'" drawing near to me and whispering
strangely, with her forefinger raised--"or all those proud Southern
people would pitch into me--pitch, you understand?" and she laughed
merrily--"their white satin slippers and all!"

"You must not talk so, Ada;" and I took her hand, which was burning.

"Why not? Who are you, to prevent me? I am as good as you any day--or
Miss Lamarque either, or any of those haughty ones--though my father was
a negro-trader. Well, whose business was that but God's? If He don't
care, who need care?--An't I right, old mammy?" appealing to the ancient
negress, who had suspended her croon to listen.

"Yes, indeed--that you is, honey; right to upholden your own dad--nebber
min' what he did to serbe the debble. But you looks mighty strange,
chile, outen your eyes. Wat dat you sees ober dar--is it a ship,
gal?--or must we--" and her voice sank to a mutter--"must we fall back
on dis picaninny, to keep from starvation?--"

I understood her dreadful suggestion even before the words fully left
her cannibal lips, exposing her yellow f