This poor negro woman was a native of St. Domingo, and, at the time of the revolution there, came to New Orleans, in care of a child belonging to one of the white planters who was murdered—­which child, by the way, has since become a pious and eminent clergyman.  By some accident or other she fell in with the Goldriches, in their commercial visits to New Orleans, and, though brought up a Catholic, the poor thing forgot all practice of her religion, and this accounts for her evasions and denials to the repeated questions of Alia regarding her parentage and birth.

“’Pon my fait, miss,” she ever said, “I know nothing about you, ’cept that you are the rose-cheeked Ali’, the fleur de lis of the flock.”

Promises, and flattering presents, and all other persuasive arts of Alia to get the secret out of Judy proved useless.  She had promised to keep it, and no human authority, she thought, could ever cause her to violate that promise.  Although Judy had, through fear of displeasing her patrons, given up all public practice of her religion, she nevertheless never denied that she was a “Catholique,” and never omitted to recite full five decades of the beads after going to bed.  She declared she could not fall asleep till she complied with this rather lazy effort of prayer.  Besides these rather faint evidences of her faith, she often told her loved Ali’ that she intended calling in the priest at the hour of her death; and she confided to the honor of the young lady this secret desire of hers, and elicited many promises from her Ali’ to send for his reverence when she would perceive her end approach.  “This is rather a singular notion of yours,” Alia used to say.  “If you are a Catholic, and believe your faith the best, or the only true one, why do you not practise its teachings, and fulfil all the requirements of your church?  I am sure neither father nor mother would blame you.”

“O miss, I feard, I feard,” the poor, timid soul would answer.  “But tink of vat I tol’ you; when I go to die, send for the bon priest, who know how to do the ‘parle Francaise,’ and I pray for you when I go to heaven.”

“I shall do that for you, poor aunt Judy, or even attend you now, while you are in health, to the Catholic church, where you can go to the sacraments, and become a member again of that church which you have so long neglected, but which yet seems still to retain a strong hold of your affections and heart.  Won’t this be the best course, aunt Judy?  I will attend you to the church of that zealous young Irish priest whom I see so often hurrying along here to his sick calls up town; and as I suspect I am ‘Irish’ myself, I hope he will not be displeased at my call.”

“O, you no Irish, miss, at all, but good Yankee.  But tish better not go for de priest till he come to me when I go to die.  Now I have religion here in mon coeur; ven I die, I profess her open.”

“Well, Judy, act as you wish; but it appears to me your conduct is singular.  I shall do my part, however; and if there is a priest to be had in the city when you take to your death bed, you must have him to attend you.”