"Oh, certainly, as far as that goes, in consideration for past services." "Yes, 'in consideration for past services,'" repeated Bill Bowen, rather significantly. "I tell you what, Mr. Craig, as you seem doing the civil to these ladies here, and as you don't seem over much to relish my company, I'll slope now, and drop in and take a bit of dinner with you at your own house by-and-by. What's your hour?" "Six o'clock," muttered Craig, with ill-concealed vexation. "Six o'clock. I shall be sure to be punctual," said Bill Bowen, "for I've got a pretty, sharp appetite. Good morning, ma'am. Good morning, miss," he added, nodding familiarly to the two ladies, as he strode out of the room. "What a horrible creature!" exclaimed Mrs. Montresor. "How can you tolerate him, Mr. Craig?" "Why, the truth is," replied Silas, "the man has been of use to me in some trifling matters of business. He has served me for a long time one way or another, and I've got used to his queer ways. He's an eccentric sort of animal, and he works all the better for being humored, so I look over his uncultivated manner." "I would not advise you to encourage him in running after you into people's drawing-rooms," said Mrs. Montresor, pointing to the clay left by Bill Bowen's boot upon the rich colors of the Persian carpet. Silas reddened and an angry frown contracted his sandy eyebrows. "I'll forgive him if he ever plays me this trick again," he muttered. "You are quite right, Mrs. Montresor, Mr. William Bowen requires to be taught a lesson, and I think Silas Craig is the man to teach it to him. Pray excuse the inconvenience you have been subjected to, and permit me to wish you a good morning." "I cannot tell you how I dislike that man!" exclaimed Adelaide, when her aunt and she were alone; "he inspires me with a disgust for which I can scarcely account. And then, again, how cruelly he spoke of Cora! Poor girl, poor girl! A slave--a slave like Myra, or Daisy or Rose, or any of our servants. The friendship between us is broken forever, and henceforth I dare not look upon her as my equal." The iron hand of prejudice has so strangled every warmer emotion of the soul, that this girl, whose heart was naturally good and generous, was prepared to abandon forever the friend and companion of her youth, because the taint of African blood was in her veins, the brand of society was stamped against her name--because she was a slave! CHAPTER VI. PAUL LISIMON. Twenty years before the period of which we are writing, a certain wealthy Spaniard, calling himself Juan Moraquitos, came to New Orleans and took up his abode in a superb villa residence, sufficiently removed from the din and bustle of the city, and yet commanding a view of the wide sweep of waters, and the dense forest of masts that thronged the levee. He brought many slaves, and a young wife, a pale Spanish beauty.