Jeannette looked up, smiling and blushing; the falling hair gave a new
softness to her face, and her eyes were as shy as the eyes of a wild
fawn.

Only the previous day I had noticed that Rodney Prescott listened with
marked attention to the captain's cousin, a Virginia lady, as she
advanced a theory that Jeannette had negro blood in her veins. 'Those
quadroon girls often have a certain kind of plebeian beauty like this
pet of yours, Mrs. Corlyne,' she said, with a slight sniff of her
high-bred, pointed nose. In vain I exclaimed, in vain I argued; the
garrison ladies were all against me, and, in their presence, not a man
dared come to my aid; and the surgeon even added, 'I wish I could be
sure of it.'

'Sure of the negro blood?' I said indignantly.

'Yes.'

'But Jeannette does not look in the least like a quadroon.'

'Some of the quadroon girls are very handsome, Mrs. Corlyne,' answered
the surgeon, coldly.

'O yes!' said the high-bred Virginia lady. 'My brother has a number of
them about his place, but we do not teach them to read, I assure you.
It spoils them.'

As I looked at Jeannette's beautiful face, her delicate eagle profile,
her fair skin and light blue eyes, I recalled this conversation with
vivid indignation. The surgeon, at least, should be convinced of his