Maraquita was lying in her silken hammock, swinging under the orange trees, and thinking over the events of the last few days. They had been important ones for her. The unexpected death of the Doctor had frightened her beyond measure, and more than ever did she feel that Henri de Courcelles owed it to her to make every exertion in his power to remove the proof of her shame from San Diego. Until that was done, she should have no rest. But she was very undecided about Sir Russell Johnstone. She didn’t wish to marry him--all her heart (such as it was) was set on Henri de Courcelles--but yet she wanted to be the wife of the Governor of San Diego, and certain hints from her mother had shown her it would be the best, and perhaps the only way, to get out of the scrape she was in. And if she refused Sir Russell Johnstone, it would be all the same; her parents would never consent to her marrying Monsieur de Courcelles. Maraquita tossed to and fro as she thought over these things, and made the hammock swing as far as its cords would admit, till the orange blossoms and their glossy leaves swept across her face, and old Jessica, who was watching from below as usual, called out to her young mistress to take care. Quita was trying to argue the matter out with herself (as silly people will) so as to make the pieces of the puzzle fit each other and please everybody all round, being too blind or too selfish, meanwhile, to see that the only person she was really bent on pleasing was herself. She believed that in a very few days she would be called upon to decide the matter, for her mother had received a letter from the Governor to ask if her daughter had returned to the White House, but she was hardly prepared, as she lay there that morning, to see Sir Russell’s barouche, with its pair of English horses, and its outriders, dash up the drive, and stop before the portals of her home. She flushed so rosy at the sight, that Jessica observed her emotion. ‘Dat only de Governor, missy, come to see Massa Courtney. De Governor’s a fine gennelman, isn’t he, missy? Got beautiful coat and trousers and waistcoat on, and fine whiskers, and nice red face. Dat Government House a beautiful place, too, and dat carriage lovely. I’d like to see my missy in a carriage like dat, wid fine English horses, and coachman, and all.’ ‘What nonsense you are talking, Jessica,’ said Quita querulously, as she turned her head away. ‘Papa’s carriage is quite good enough for me, and I don’t want any other.’ ‘Ah, but some day my missy marry fine gennelman, and have everyting dat’s nice and beautiful. Not one of dese island fellers--overseers and such like,’ continued the negress contemptuously, ‘with half de blood black in their veins, but a real English gennelman, with plenty money, and all white blood.’ Maraquita reddened, and yawned, and turned pettishly away. She knew well enough to whom old Jessica was alluding, and she resented the hint as an impertinence.