‘As for that villain De Courcelles, your father shall give him a summary dismissal, and anything he may say in his rage will be taken for revenge. He can _prove_ nothing. He has only his bare word to give for it, and who would believe him against your own parents? Meanwhile, dearest, the sooner your marriage takes place the better, and then you will feel safe. But whatever you do, Maraquita, never acknowledge your shame again, even to De Courcelles. You never know who may overhear it. Try to believe it has never been, and then you will act as though it had never been. As for marrying your father’s overseer, it is out of the question, and like his presumption to dream of it. As if he hadn’t done you harm enough already, without wishing to hamper you for life! It’s like the unreasonable selfishness of men. But you may make your mind easy, my dear, your mother will save you.’ ‘Oh, mamma, how I wish I could go away somewhere, and never see nor hear anything of him again!’ sobbed Maraquita. ‘So you shall, Quita, if you will only have a little patience. But cease crying now, my child, or you will make yourself ill. Lie down on my couch, and try to go to sleep. I won’t let you leave the house again until Monsieur de Courcelles has quitted the plantation.’ And with a kiss of forgiveness, Mrs Courtney left her frail daughter to repose. [Illustration] [Illustration] CHAPTER V. The next morning Liz was walking up the avenue of orange trees that led to the White House, with her eyes fixed upon the ground, and her brow wrinkled with perplexity. After many hours of painful deliberation, she had come to the conclusion to take the advice of Captain Norris, and beg Maraquita to relieve her of the intolerable burden of shame she bore for her sake; but _how_ to accuse her adopted sister of her sin, troubled her beyond measure. She felt so deeply for her youth and betrayed innocence. Such a well of divine compassion for the injured girl was mingled with her own horror of the deed, that she scarcely knew whether she should feel most inclined to commiserate with, or to blame her. Liz pictured Quita to herself writhing on the ground for very shame at the discovery of her weakness, bright-eyed, dusky-haired Maraquita, who had always seemed so much to be envied and admired, prostrate in her humiliation, and her generous heart bled in anticipation of her sister’s pain. She conned over and over again the words in which she would break the truth to her, trying to make them as tender and little accusing as she could. She would endeavour (she thought) to first gain Quita’s confidence, and then to make her understand that, if she would only do what was just, in confessing the truth to her parents, Liz would be her friend, and the friend of her little daughter, to their lives’ end. But what she was about to ask of Quita was a very serious thing, and she doubted if the girl’s strength of mind would carry her through it.