Mrs. Allison looked up like a hare that scents the hounds.
"What did they say?" Her heart sank. "The old story," she whispered. "God pity me."
"They said"—he paused, it was hard to repeat—"Lucy"—his voice broke—"forgive me if I hurt you. Who is Virginia?"
"Virginia is my child." Her voice was harsh and proud. She knew what he meant; it was an old question she was used to answering, if not so plainly put before. "Virginia is my daughter," she said again. Her voice changed, it yearned over the claim.
"She is not like Lucy." The young man paused, then his words escaped through his clenched teeth, "They said Virginia had negro blood in her veins, is it true? is it true?"
Mrs. Allison drew herself up, white like the dead.
"I did not wish your engagement to Lucy," she said coldly; "you followed us over America, and came to London after her."
The young man did not answer, he saw it all; he could never marry Lucy, then, his pretty, wilful, dear Lucy. He, the son of an old, proud American family. He remembered
