‘Your father was my dearest friend: I can never forget that,’ replied the planter; ‘and I am only following the dictates of my affection for him in making a suitable provision for his daughter. I have been thinking the matter over deeply, Lizzie, and I have decided that I cannot spare you from amongst my coolies. Why should you not carry on the work from which your father has been so suddenly called away? I know you are competent to do so, from what he himself has told me, and in any difficult cases you can always call in the assistance of the Doctor from the Fort. What I propose is that you should continue to live in this bungalow (the furniture and effects of which I shall make over to you as your own property), and to work amongst the coloured people; and I will gladly pay you the same remuneration as heretofore. Don’t you think it will be the best plan, Lizzie, and that you will be happier if you bravely try to forget your grief, in carrying on a life of activity and usefulness?’ ‘I am _sure_ it will be best,’ she answered, in a low tone. Her pride, which had made her divine at once the cause of her benefactor’s change of mind, would have also prompted her to refuse his offers of assistance, but she was helpless in the matter. She had no friends to go to, no resources to fall back upon. What could she have done, left alone in San Diego, but live on charity, which she would rather have died than accept? Mr Courtney’s proposal was at least not a humiliating one. He offered her money in return for her labour, and she was resolved to earn it, and thanked Heaven she was capable of doing so. That he should not even have alluded to his promise of the morning wounded but did not surprise her. He had heard the wretched slander, which was doubtless already going the round of the plantation, concerning her. Henri de Courcelles had, perhaps, repeated it, and Mr Courtney already regretted that he had held out hopes he could not fulfil. Well, he should not read her disappointment in her eyes. She would put a brave face on the matter, and battle (as best she could) for herself; for the oath she had taken to her dead father was doubly sacred, now that all hope of release from it was over. ‘We will do all in our power to make your life comfortable,’ continued Mr Courtney; ‘and you may always depend on me, Lizzie, as your friend.’ He did not include his wife’s and daughter’s friendship with his own, and Lizzie noticed the omission, and shrunk under it. ‘Mr Courtney,’ she said, in a firm voice, though her eyes were full of tears, ‘I thank you for your offers of assistance, and I accept them gratefully. I did not know till a few days back, the whole extent to which my poor father was indebted to you, but I shall never forget it, and if I can ever repay it in the slightest degree, I will.’ ‘Hush, my dear! It was nothing. Don’t speak of it now.’