ns as they then said;--miles of James River
"low grounds" and uncounted Africans. Like the Duke of Burgundy's, her
sovereignty is acknowledged in three languages--the English, the
African or Moorish, and the Indian: for the Indian settlement on the
south side calls her mistress, and sends to her for blankets in the
winter. In the summer it is not necessary to ask for the produce of
her estate, such as they desire--they appropriate it.

Philippa is a cousin of Belle-bouche; and Belle-bouche is the niece of
Aunt Wimple, who is mistress of the Shadynook domain. Philippa has
guardians, but it cannot be said they direct her movements. They have
given up that task in despair, some years since, and only hope that
from the numerous cormorants always hovering around her, she may
select one not wholly insatiable--with some craw of mercy.

"There, you are talking about flowers, I lay a wager," she says,
returning the bow of Jacques, and laughing.

"I was speaking neither of yourself nor the fair Belinda," replies
Jacques, with melancholy gallantry.

"There! please have done with compliments--I detest them."

"You detest every thing insincere, I know, charming Philippa--pardon
me, but your beautiful name betrays me constantly. Is it not--like
your voice--stolen from poetry or music?"

"Ah, sir, you are insufferable."

"Pardon, pardon--but in this beautiful and fair season, so full of
flowers----"

"You think it necessary to employ flowers of speech: that is what you
were going to say, but for heaven's sake have done."

Jacques bows.

"I have just discarded the twentieth, Bel," she adds, laughing; "he
got on his knees."

And Philippa laughs heartily.

Jacques is used to his companion's manner of talking, and says:

"Who was it, pray, madam--Mowbray?"

A flush passes over Philippa's face, and she looks away, murmuring
"No!"

"I won't go over the list of your admirers," continues Jacques, sadly,
"they are too numerous; for who can wonder at such a fairy face as
yours attracting crowds of lovers?"

"My fairy face? Yes, and my unhappy wealth, sir. I wish I was poor! I
can never know when I am loved truly. Oh, to know that!"

And a shadow passes over the face, obliterating the satire, and
veiling the brilliant eyes. Then with an effort Philippa drives away
her preoccupation, and says:

"I wish Heaven had made me a man!"

"A man?" says Jacques.

"Yes, sir."

"Pray why? Is there any young lady you would like to