The infant began to cry, and there came into the room a colored woman, tall and with that superb luxuriance of form that so frequently characterizes the dusky-hued woman of the South. She approached the crib and took the child in her arms, hushing it with a sort of cajoling attempt at tenderness, that seemed to annoy the young mother not a little. “Give the babe to me!” she said, feebly reaching forth her arms. “Better not, better not, missus,” replied the woman, pressing her full lips upon the velvet cheek resting on her bosom—a most unnatural pillow, as the unhappy mother felt all too keenly. “Nurse said last night that young missus must be kept quiet, and the baby not left to fret her so much.” “Fret me! my child fret me! Give it to me, I say,” cried the young mother so passionately that the color broke over her pale cheek, like the abrupt opening of a rose-bud. “It is cruel, it is unkind, thus to keep a babe from its mother’s bosom. _He_ never ordered it. I know well enough it is not his wish that I should be tortured in this manner.” “Take the child to its mother. Why do you hesitate in obeying your mistress?” cried a firm and manly voice from the door; and with his lofty step somewhat subdued, a gentleman entered the chamber, whose air of authority awed the negress at once. He approached the young female, who had started eagerly up from her pillow, with every manifestation of deep tenderness in her voice and manner. “Have you been waiting for me, Zulima?” he said, bending down to kiss the fair forehead of his wife. “I was kept longer than usual at the counting-house this morning.” “Oh! I knew that you would be here soon,” replied the young wife, taking his hand between both hers, and kissing it with a degree of passionate tenderness that thrilled through her feeble frame, till, in her weak state, excess of feeling became almost painful. “What! because I scattered my path to your bedside with the flowers you have been wasting?” was the smiling reply. “They were welcome and very sweet, for they told me that you were soon to follow,” said the young wife, gathering the scattered flowers together with her hand. “See! your little daughter has kept hers in better condition. She is not old enough to tear her flowers to pieces the moment they come within reach!” “Like her mother, ha! Zulima!” said the gentleman, shaking his head, but smiling fondly all the time. “She must have more patience and less pride than her mother, this pretty child—or she will be”— “As unfortunate and as unhappy as her mother has been,” said the young wife, and her eyes filled with tears. “I only hope she will be as lovely and as innocent, whatever her lot may prove, and as truly beloved, Zulima,” he added, after a moment’s pause; and with an expression of deep feeling, mingled with a shade of sadness, the proud husband gazed upon his wife and child till the tears clouded his own fine eyes.