“De breedin’ women dey treat well,—speshilly jes afore dar time,[24]—but I’ze known a pregnant woman whipped so she died de same night. O de poor bressed lily ob de world! O de angel from hebbn! O de sweet lubly chile! Nebber, no, nebber, nebber shall I disremember how I held de little gole cross afore dat chile’s eyes, an’ how she die wid de smile on her sweet face, and her own husband’s head on her bosom.” And the old woman burst into a passion of tears, rocking herself to and fro, and living over again the sorrow of that death-bed scene to which she and Peek and one other, years before, had been witnesses. Clara pacified her, and Esha said, “You jes stop one minute, darlin’, and I’ll show yer suff’n.” She went to her garret-closet, and returned with a small silk bag, from which she took a package done up in fine linen. This she unpinned, and displayed a long strand of human hair, thick, silky, soft, and of a peculiarly beautiful color, hardly olive, yet reminding one of that hue. Holding it up, she said: “Dar! Dat’s de hair I cut from de head of dat same bress-ed chile I jes tell yer ’bout.” “But that is the hair of a white woman,” said Clara. “Bress yer, darlin’, she war jes as white as you am dis minute.” After some seconds of silence, Clara said, “Tell me of her.” And Esha related many, though not all, of the particulars already familiar to the reader in the story of Estelle. “Esha, you must give me some of that hair,” said Clara. “Yes, darlin’, I ’ll change half of it fur some ob yourn.” The exchange was made, Clara wrapping her portion in the little strip of bunting torn from the American flag. On the subject of her birth Clara had put to Mrs. Gentry some searching questions, but had learnt simply that her parentage was unknown. For her concealed benefactor she had conceived a romantic attachment; and gratitude incited her to make the best of her opportunities, and to patiently bear her chagrins. A month after the late interview with Ratcliff, Mrs. Gentry received a letter which caused Clara to be summoned to her presence. “Sit down. I’ve something important to communicate,” said the schoolmistress. “You’ve often asked me to whom you are indebted for your support. Learn now that you belong to Mr. Carberry Ratcliff, whom you met here some weeks ago. He is the rich planter whose house and grounds in Lafayette you’ve often admired.” “_Belong_ to him?” cried Clara. “What do you mean? Am I his daughter? Am I in any way related?” “No, you’re his slave. He bought you at auction.” Impulsive as her own mocking-bird by nature, Clara had learned that cruel lesson, which gifted children are often compelled to acquire when subjected to the rule of inferior minds,—the art, namely, of checking and disguising the emotions.