arms on the back of Franconia's lolling chair, as her eyes assumed a
melancholy glare. She heaved a sigh.

"You could not be happier than you are; you are well cared for;
Uncle will never see you want; but you must be cheerful when I come,
Clotilda,-you must! To see you unhappy makes me feel unhappy."

"Cheerful!-its better said than felt. Can he or she be cheerful who
is forced to sin against God and himself? There is little to be
cheerful with, where the nature is not its own. Why should I be the
despised wretch at your Uncle's feet: did God, the great God, make
me a slave to his licentiousness?"

"Suppress such feelings, Clotilda; do not let them get the better of
you. God ordains all things: it is well to abide by His will, for it
is sinful to be discontented, especially where everything is so well
provided. Why, Uncle has learned you to read, and even to write."

"Ah! that's just what gave me light; through it I knew that I had a
life, and a soul beyond that, as valuable to me as yours is to you."

"Be careful, Clotilda," she interrupts; "remember there is a wide
difference between us. Do not cross Uncle; he is kind, but he may
get a freak into his head, and sell you."

Clotilda's cheeks brightened; she frowned at the word, and, giving
her black hair a toss from her shoulder, muttered, "To sell me!-Had
you measured the depth of pain in that word, Franconia, your lips
had never given it utterance. To sell me!-'tis that. The difference
is wide indeed, but the point is sharpest. Was it my mother who made