Clara paused a moment, and sat looking with clasped hands at the keys. Then, after a delicate prelude, she gave that song of Pestal, already quoted.[30] She gave it with her whole soul, as if a personal wrong were adding intensity to the defiance of her tones. Kenrick, wrought to a state of sympathy which he could not disguise, had taken a seat where he could watch her features while she sang. When she had finished, she covered her face with her hands, then, finding her emotion uncontrollable, rose and passed out of the room. “What do you think of that, Charles?” asked Onslow. “It was terrible,” said Kenrick. “I wanted to kill a slaveholder while she sang.” “But she has the powers of a _prima donna_,” said Onslow, turning to Laura. “Yes, one would think she had practised for the stage.” Clara now returned with a countenance placid and smiling. “How long do you stay in New Orleans, Miss Brown?” inquired Onslow. “How long, Laura?” asked Clara. “A week or two.” “We shall have another opportunity, I hope, of hearing you sing.” “I hope so.” “I have an appointment now at the armory. Charles, are you ready to walk?” “No, thank you. I prefer to remain.” Onslow left, and, immediately afterwards, Laura’s mother being seized with a timely hemorrhage, Laura was called off to attend to her. Kenrick was alone with Clara. Charming opportunity! He drew from her still another and another song. He conversed with her on her studies,—on the books she had read,—the pictures she had seen. He was roused by her intelligence and wit. He spoke of slavery. Deep as was his own detestation of it, she helped him to make it deeper. What delightful harmony of views! Kenrick felt that his time had come. The hours slipped by like minutes, yet there he sat chained by a fascination so new, so strange, so delightful, he marvelled that life had in it so much of untasted joy. Kenrick was not accustomed to be critical in details. He looked at general effects. But the most trifling point in Clara’s accoutrements was now a thing to be marked and remembered. The little sleeve-button dropped from the band round her throat. Kenrick picked it up,—examined it,—saw, in characters so fine as to be hardly legible, the letters C.A.B. upon it. (“B. stands for Brown,” thought he.) And then, as Clara put out her hand to receive it, he noticed the bracelet she wore. “What beautiful hair!” he said. He looked up at Clara’s to trace a resemblance. But his glance stopped midway at her eyes. “Blue and gray!” he murmured. “Yes, can you read them?” asked Clara. “What do you mean?” “Only a dream I had. There’s a letter on them somebody is to open and read.” “O, that I were a Daniel to interpret!” said Kenrick. At last Miss Tremaine returned. Her mother had been dangerously ill. It was an hour after midnight. Sincerely astounded at finding it so late, Kenrick took his leave. Heart and brain were full. “Thou art the wine whose drunkenness is all I can desire, O love!”