“But you forget that I do know something about them, darling,” replied Mrs. Delano.  “I am never so happy as when you are telling me about your father.  Perhaps by and by, when you have become enough used to your new home to feel as mischievous as you are prone to be, you will take a fancy to sing to me, ’O, there’s nothing half so sweet in life as love’s old dream.’”

It was beautiful to see how girlish the sensible and serious lady became in her efforts to be companionable to her young protegee.  Day after day, her intimate friends found her playing battledoor or the Graces, or practising pretty French romanzas, flowery rondeaux, or lively dances.  She was surprised at herself; for she had not supposed it possible for her ever to take an interest in such things after her daughter died.  But, like all going out of self, these efforts brought their recompense.

She always introduced the little stranger as “Miss Flora Delano, my adopted daughter.”  To those who were curious to inquire further, she said:  “She is an orphan, in whom I became much interested in the West Indies.  As we were both very much alone in the world, I thought the wisest thing we could do would be to cheer each other’s loneliness.”  No allusion was ever made to her former name, for that might have led to inconvenient questions concerning her father’s marriage; and, moreover, the lady had no wish to resuscitate the little piece of romance in her own private history, now remembered by few.

It was contrary to Mrs. Delano’s usual caution and deliberation to adopt a stranger so hastily; and had she been questioned beforehand, she would have pronounced it impossible for her to enter into such a relation with one allied to the colored race, and herself a slave.  But a strange combination of circumstances had all at once placed her in this most unexpected position.  She never for one moment regretted the step she had taken; but the consciousness of having a secret to conceal, especially a secret at war with the conventional rules of society, was distasteful to her, and felt as some diminution of dignity.  She did not believe in the genuineness of Rosa’s marriage, though she deemed it best not to impart such doubts to Flora.  If Mr. Fitzgerald should marry another, she foresaw that it would be her duty to assist in the reunion of the sisters, both of whom were slaves.  She often thought to herself, “In what a singular complication I have become involved!  So strange for me, who have such an aversion to all sorts of intrigues and mysteries.”  With these reflections were mingled anxieties concerning Flora’s future.  Of course, it would not be well for her to be deprived of youthful companionship; and if she mixed with society, her handsome person, her musical talent, and her graceful dancing would be sure to attract admirers.  And then, would it be right to conceal her antecedents?  And if they should be explained or accidentally discovered, after her young affections were engaged, what disappointment and sadness might follow!