Gilbert smiled at his friend's sally. The two young men had met upon the Continent, and had traveled together through Germany and Switzerland. "The nymph is no other than yonder lovely girl, talking to your cousin, Miss Horton," said Gilbert; "look at her, Mortimer, watch the graceful head, the silky raven hair, as she bends down to whisper to her companion. Is she not lovely?" Few who looked upon the young girl of whom Gilbert Margrave spoke, could well have answered otherwise than in the affirmative. She was indeed lovely in the first blush of youth, with the innocence of an angel beaming in every smile; with the tenderness of a woman lying shadowed in the profound depths of her almond-shaped black eyes. Features, delicately molded and exquisitely proportioned; a tiny rosebud mouth; a Grecian nose; a complexion fairer than the ungathered lily hiding deep in an untrodden forest; it was difficult for the imagination of the poet, or the painter, to picture aught so beautiful. "Is she not lovely?" repeated Gilbert Margrave. The young South American put his head critically on one side, with the calculating glance with which a connoisseur in the fine arts regards a valuable picture. The used-up Mortimer Percy made it a rule never to commit himself by admiring anything, or anybody. "Hum--ha!" he muttered thoughtfully; "yes, she's by no means bad-looking." "By no means bad-looking!" cried Gilbert Margrave, impatiently; "you cold-hearted automaton, how dare you speak of womanly perfection in such a manner. She's an angel, a goddess--a siren--a--" "You'll have an attack of apoplexy, Margrave, if you go on in this way," said Mortimer, laughing. "Can you tell me who she is?" "No. But I can do more. I can tell you what she is." "What do you mean?" "I mean that your angel, your nymph, your goddess, your siren is--a slave." "A slave?" exclaimed Gilbert. "Yes. The African blood runs in those purple veins. The hereditary curse of slavery hovers over that graceful and queen-like head." "But her skin is fairer than the lily." "What of that? Had you been a planter, Gilbert, you would have been able to discover, as I did, when just now I stood close to that lovely girl, the fatal signs of her birth. At the extreme corner of the eye, and at the root of the finger nails, the South American can always discover the trace of slavery, though but one drop of the blood of the despised race tainted the object upon whom he looked." "But this girl seems an intimate friend of your cousin, Adelaide; who can she be?" asked Gilbert. "Yes, that is the very thing that puzzles me. Adelaide must be utterly ignorant of her origin, or she would never treat as a friend one who, on the other side of the Atlantic, would be her lady's maid. But hush, here comes my aunt, she will be able to tell us all about her beautiful guest."