intensely black, was bound with a gold fillet, after a fashion that
has returned a half century later. A single diamond sparkled upon her
finger. She seemed to Harry foreign, handsome, and very distinguished.

About half the people in the room were of French blood, most of whom
Harry surmised were descendants of people who had fled from Hayti or
Santo Domingo. One, Hector St. Hilaire, almost sixty, but a major in
the militia of South Carolina, soon proved that the boy's surmise was
right. Lemonade and a mild drink called claret-sanger was served to
the boys, but the real claret was served to the major, as to the other
elders, and the mellowness of Christmas pervaded his spirit. He drank a
toast to Madame Delaunay, and the others drank it with him, standing.
Madame Delaunay responded prettily, and, in a few words, she asked
protection and good fortune for this South Carolina which they all loved,
and which had been a refuge to the ancestors of so many of them.
As she sat down she looked up at the wall and Harry's glance followed
hers. It was a long dining-room, and he saw there great portraits in
massive gilt frames. They were of people French in look, handsome,
and dressed with great care and elaboration. The men were in gay coats
and knee breeches, silk stockings and buckled shoes. Small swords were
at their sides. The women were even more gorgeous in velvet or heavy
satin, with their hair drawn high upon their heads and powdered.
One had a beauty patch upon her cheek.

Major St. Hilaire saw Harry's look as it sped along the wall. He smiled
a little sadly and then, a little cheerfully:

"Those are the ancestors of Madame Delaunay," he said, "and some,
I may mention in passing, are my own, also. Our gracious hostess and
myself are more or less distantly related--less, I fear--but I boast of