Maxwell has taken a deep interest in Clotilda; and the solicitude she manifests for her child has drawn him still further in her favour; he is determined to solve the mystery that shrouds her history.  Drawing near to them, he seats himself upon the ground at their side, inquires why they did not come into the house.  “There’s no place there for us,—­none for me,” Clotilda modestly replies, holding down her head, placing her arm around Annette’s waist.

“You would enjoy it much better, and there is no restraint upon anyone.”

“We know not why the day was not for us to enjoy as well as others; but it is ordained so.  Where life is a dreary pain, pleasure is no recompense for disgrace enforced upon us.  They tell us we are not what God made us to be; but it is the worst torture to be told so.  There is nothing in it-it is the curse only that remains to enforce wrong.  Those who have gifts to enjoy life, and those who move to make others happy, can enjoy their separate pleasures; our lives are between the two, hence there is little pleasure for us,” she answered, her eyes moistening with tears.

“If you will but come with me-”

“Oh, I will go anywhere,” she rejoined, quickly; “anywhere from this; that I may know who I am-may bear my child with me-may lead a virtuous life, instead of suffering the pangs of shame through a life of unholy trouble.”

“She never knows when she’s well off.  If Marston was to hear her talk in that way, I wouldn’t stand in her shoes,” interrupted Ellen, with a significant air.

Touched by this anxious reply, Maxwell determined to know more of her feelings-to solve the anxiety that was hanging upon her mind, and, if possible, to carry her beyond the power that held her and her child in such an uncertain position.

“I meant into the house,” said he, observing that Ellen was not inclined to favour Clotilda’s feelings; and just at that moment the shrill sounds of a bugle summoned the party to the collation.  Here another scene was enacted, which is beyond the power of pen to describe.  The tables, decorated with wild flowers, were spread with meats of all descriptions,—­fowl, game, pastry, and fruit, wines, and cool drinks.  Faces wearing the blandest smiles, grave matrons, and cheerful planters,—­all dressed in rustic style and neatness-gathered around to partake of the feast, while servants were running hither and thither to serve mas’r and missus with the choicest bits.  Toasts, compliments, and piquant squibs, follow the wine-cup.  Then came that picture of southern life which would be more worthy of praise if it were carried out in the purity of motive:—­as soon as the party had finished, the older members, in their turn, set about preparing a repast for the servants.  This seemed to elate the negroes, who sat down to their meal with great pomp, and were not restrained in the free use of the choicest beverage.  While this was going on, Marston ordered Rachel to prepare fruit and pastry for Ellen and Clotilda.  “See to them; and they must have wine too,” whispered Marston.