“Zuleime,” he said, after he had stroked her hair some time, “you know, my love, that your aunt Cabell, and your cousins, are going back to Richmond to-day.” “Are they, sir? I did not know it,” said Zuleime, turning paler, with apprehension of something that might be coming. “Yes, my dear, they are. And, Zuleime—” here he paused—then he went on, “you have been thinking, I suppose, that you should have to return with them, to enter upon your school duties again, as the first of September is so near.” “I had not thought of it, sir! So many things happening, put it out of my head. But I am quite willing to go, and can be ready in half an hour.” “Thank you, my dear child. I am very glad to see you so prompt to oblige me; but, my dear Zuleime, I have good news for you.” “Good news, sir?” “Yes, girl! the best news! the _very_ best news! news that young ladies always rejoice to hear!” “What news, sir?” she asked, fearfully. “Don’t whine, girl! it is not your sentence of death! It is your deed of emancipation! Your ‘free papers,’ as the niggers would say. You are not to return to school any more! Are you not surprised? Are you not rejoiced now?” Zuleime was not. She was anxious, foreboding. “Why don’t you speak, my dear? Ain’t you glad you’re not going back to school, to leather shoulder braces and back boards, and square and compass rules and regulations, that mean nothing, unless they mean persecution and torture! Say, ain’t you glad?” “I think I had rather go back to school for the present, sir.” “Nonsense, now, my dear! Ah! I see how it is! You want to return with your dear aunt Cabell, and the dear city cousins—especially cousin Charley! Eh, you monkey! You grow tired of the country and your old father, as soon as ever your aunt and cousins talk about returning to the city! Ah! you rogue,” said the old man, chucking her under the chin, and devoutly praying that he might be right in his conjecture—for, oh! that child’s happiness! It lay nearer his heart than anything else on earth or in heaven. “Dear father!” she said, embracing him, “I do not wish to leave you, indeed I do not. I prefer the country. And I had rather _never_ leave you, or my home.” “Dear little rogue, now don’t tell me that! I know better you know! And it is quite natural, and nobody blames you. The young bird must leave its nest, and the young girl her home, when she becomes a wife. Your mother left her parents and came home here with her husband. So do not think, my love, that your old father will charge you with selfishness for wishing to leave him—no, not wishing to _leave him_, but wishing to go with one who is to be your husband.” Zuleime dropped her head, to conceal the deadly pallor that crept over her face.