"Now, Nicholas!" she whispers, with touching simplicity, as she
views him from head to foot with a smile of exultation on her face,
"your mother never dressed you so neat. But I like you more and
more, Nicholas, because both our mothers are gone; and maybe we
shall never see 'um again." And she kisses him fondly,--tells him not
to stay long,--to tell her all he has seen and heard about mother,
when he returns.
"I don't know, 'Nette, but 'pears to me we ain't like other
children-they don't have to be sold so often; and I don't seem to
have any father."
"Neither do I; but Mrs. Tuttlewell says I mustn't mind that, because
there's thousands just like us. And then she says we ain't the same
kind o' white folks that she is; she says we are white, but niggers
for all that. I don't know how it is! I'm not like black folks,
because I'm just as white as any white folks," she rejoins, placing
her little arms round his neck and smoothing his hair with her left
hand.
"I'll grow up, one o' these days."
"And so will I," she speaks, boldly.
"And I'm goin' to know where my mother's gone, and why I ain't as
good as other folks' white children," he rejoins sullenly, shaking
his head, and muttering away to himself. It is quite evident that
the many singular stages through which he is passing, serve only to
increase the stubborness of his nature. The only black
distinguishable in his features are his eyes and hair; and, as he
looks in the glass to confirm what he has said, Annette takes him by
the hand, tells him he must not mind, now; that if he is good he
shall see Franconia,--and mother, too, one of these days.
Pages:
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577