The quadroon made no reply, but gently retired, dressed, and glided out of the house into the open air. On through the yet deserted streets she swiftly passed. A white fog brooded over the city. Heavy-winged sea-birds were slowly making their way overhead to the marshes of Lake Ponchartrain, or still farther out to the beaches of the Gulf. The sound of drums and fifes in the distance occasionally broke the matutinal stillness. The walls of the streets were covered with placards of meetings of volunteer companies,—of the Wigman Rifles, the MacMahon Guards, the Beauregard Lancers, the Black Flag Invincibles. After half an hour’s walk, the quadroon paused before a house, on the door of which was a brass plate presenting the words,—“Mrs. Gentry’s Seminary for Young Ladies.” While she looked and hesitated, a black girl came up from some steps leading into the basement, and with a mop and pail of water proceeded to wash the sidewalk. “Is Esha in?” asked the quadroon. “Yes, missis, Esha am in. Jes you go down dem steps inter de kitchen, an’ dar you’ll fine Esha, sure.” And taking the direction pointed out, Madame found herself in the presence of a large, powerfully built mulatto woman, who was engaged in preparations for breakfast. “Is this Esha?” “Yes, missis, dis am nob’dy else.” “Esha, I want a few minutes’ talk with you.” “Take a char, den, missis, and ’scuse my looks.” “You look like a good woman, Esha, so no matter for dress.” “Tahnk yer, missis. Esha’s like de res’,—not too good,—but nebdeless dar’s wuss folks dan she.” “Esha, who is this young girl Mr. Ratcliff is after?” Esha’s eyes snapped, and she looked sharply at her visitor. “Why you want ter know?” she asked. “Are you a slave, Esha?” “Yes, missis, I’se born a slabe,—hab libd a slabe, an’ ’spek to die a slabe.” “I too am a slave, Esha. I belonged to old Etienne La Harpe, who died six years ago. Though I had had two children, one by him and one by his son, the old man’s widow sent me to the auction-block. I was sold to the highest bidder. I was bought by Mr. Carberry Ratcliff.” “Ah! by him? by him?” muttered Esha. “I was handsome. He made me his favorite. I’ve been faithful to him. Even his wife, poor thing, blesses the day I came into the house. She would have died long ago but for my care. The slaves, too, come to me with their sorrows. I do what I can for their relief. I am not, by nature, a bad woman. I would continue to serve this man and his household.” “Do yer lub him,—dis Massa Ratcliff?” “That’s a hard question, Esha. He has treated me like a lady. I am practically at the head of his house. I have a carriage at my command. He gives me all the money I ask for. He prizes me for my prudence and good temper. I love him so far as this: I should hate the woman who threatened to step between me and him. Now tell me who this girl is whose photograph he has.” “She, missis? She am a slabe too.” “She a slave? Whose slave?” “She ’longs to Massa Ratcliff!”