Annette
feels the affliction, but is too young to divine the cause thereof.
She recalls the many happy plantation scenes; they are bright to her
yet! She prattles about Daddy Bob, Harry, Aunt Rachel, and old Sue,
now and then adding a solicitous question about Marston. But she
does not realise that he is her father; no, it was not her lot to
bestow a daughter's affection upon him, and she is yet too young to
comprehend the poison of slave power. Her childlike simplicity
affords a touching contrast to that melancholy injustice by which a
fair creature with hopes and virtues after God's moulding, pure and
holy, is made mere merchandise for the slave-market.
Annette has learned to look upon Nicholas as a brother; but, like
herself, he is kept from those of his own colour by some, to him,
unintelligible agency. Strange reflections flit through her youthful
imagination, as she embraces him with a sister's fondness. How oft
she lays her little head upon his shoulder, encircles his neck with
her fair arm, and braids his raven hair with her tiny fingers! She
little thinks how fatal are those charms she bears bloomingly into
womanhood.
But, if they alike increase in beauty as they increase in age, their
dispositions are as unlike as two opposites can be moulded. Nicholas
has inherited that petulant will, unbending determination, and
lurking love of avenging wrong, so peculiar to the Indian race. To
restlessness he adds distrust of those around him; and when
displeased, is not easily reconciled.
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