In the corridor leading to the young girl's boudoir he met Pauline Corsi. He did not stop to speak to her, but passed her with a careless bow--such a salute as a man only bestows upon one whom he thinks far beneath him. It did not escape the keen observation of the Frenchwoman. "So," she murmured, as she glanced back at the American, "I am a governess--a dependent--unworthy of your notice. Mr. Horton, the day may come when you will find me no weak enemy!" She broke into the merry chorus of a gay French song, as she finished speaking, and tripped away, warbling like some joyous bird. None could have dreamed the dark thoughts that lurked beneath that joyous exterior. Augustus Horton entered the boudoir, and lifting a rose-colored silken curtain which shrouded the doorway, gazed in silence upon the occupant of the chamber. The heiress was seated near the open window, her rounded elbow, firm and polished as unveined marble, resting on the cushion of her chair, her head leaning on her hand, her lustrous eyes veiled by the silken lashes that curtained them; her whole attitude bespeaking the profoundest melancholy. The planter gazed upon her with admiration, but it was admiration unmingled with love. It was with the same feeling he would have experienced in looking at some gorgeous picture. His eye was bewitched by the exquisite coloring, the perfect form; but his heart was untouched. Nothing could be more complete than the contrast between the Spanish girl and the Octoroon. Both were beautiful--both had eyes of deepest black, but the orbs of Cora Leslie were soft and pensive, while those of Camillia Moraquitos flashed with the burning flames of a southern clime. Cora's oval cheeks were pale as the unsullied leaf of the water-lily; Camillia's glowed with a rich crimson blush, of that splendid hue, rarely seen save in the petals of the damask rose. But each had offended the pride of the planter, and he determined that each should pay a bitter penalty for having dared to prefer another. He told his suit and was rejected with scorn. Nay, more, he saw that not only was he utterly indifferent to the Spanish girl--there was something beyond indifference in her manner--something even more powerful than scorn--there was hatred! Infuriated by this discovery, he determined to fathom her reason. "Camillia Moraquitos," he said, with outward calmness, beneath which raged suppressed passion, "you have rejected the offer of a devoted heart. Be it so! I cannot force your compliance. You love another; no doubt some honorable man, whose unsullied name will shed a luster upon the woman he weds." The Spanish girl's head dropped as Augustus said this, with chilling irony. She felt that he knew her secret, and the bitterness of the sneer wounded her to the heart. "But this is not all," continued the planter; "not only do you love another, but you hate me. I ask you why this is so?"