‘Neither, Jessica. Tell mamma I am not hungry or thirsty, only very sleepy, and I want to be left alone for an hour or two. I can call you when I wake.’ ‘If missy sleepy, better come and sleep in house,’ urged Jessica. ‘So many flies and ’skeeters about here.’ ‘I wish you would let me do as I like, Jessica,’ said Quita, ‘and keep your suggestions to yourself.’ ‘I’se very sorry, missy. I won’t say any more, only stop here and keep off de flies and tings from your face.’ ‘You’re enough to drive a saint mad!’ cried Maraquita, stamping her foot. ‘Didn’t I tell you I wanted to be left alone? What is it to you if I like flies and mosquitoes buzzing about me? Go back to the house, and don’t come near me again till I give you leave.’ The old nurse obeyed without a murmur; but she _did_ murmur, for all that. The coloured people are very secretive, and can assume an appearance of complete innocence, all the time they are cognisant of their employer’s most important secrets. ‘Ah! my poor little missy,’ muttered Jessica to herself, as she shambled on her bare flat feet towards the house, ‘you think ole black nurse blind, but she see too well. She know all about de baby at Doctor’s bungalow, and who’s de fader and moder of it, as well as you. And she will see her little missy revenged, before many moons is ober her head, into de bargain. Cuss dat oberseer!’ Meanwhile Maraquita, having watched Jessica into the house, through the branches of the orange tree, stole out the opposite side, and, keeping well out of view of the windows, took her way towards the oleander thicket, which lay between her home and De Courcelles’ bungalow. It was a wild patch of flowering shrubs, densely planted together, and forming a sufficient ambush to conceal any number of persons from the public gaze. There was a wooden bench in one part of it, where Maraquita and De Courcelles had often held their moonlight trysts together; and there she found him eager to tell his news, and claim his reward. Quita sunk down upon the bench, and trembled. She was not only weak from her recent illness, but she dreaded the scene which might follow the impending revelation. ‘You are far from well yet, my Quita,’ said Henri de Courcelles, as he folded his arms about her trembling form; ‘but I have something to tell you which will set your mind at rest.’ ‘Tell it to me quickly, then,’ rejoined Maraquita. ‘Have you sent it out of the island? Are you _sure_ I shall never hear of it again?’ ‘No, I cannot quite promise you that,’ replied De Courcelles, with an intuitive disgust (even in the midst of his passion) for her undisguised selfishness. ‘It has never been in my hands, so it was impossible I could form any plans for it. But circumstances have fallen out so fortunately, that I don’t see any chance of suspicion falling upon _you_.’