Now you believe me, don't you, Miss
Roussillon?"
He seemed to be falling into the habit of speaking to her in
English. She understood it somewhat imperfectly, especially when
in an earnest moment he rushed his words together as if they had
been soldiers he was leading at the charge-step against an enemy.
His manner convinced her, even though his diction fell short.
"Then we'll talk about something else," she said, laughing
naturally now, and retreating to a chair by the hearthside. "I
want you to tell me all about yourself and your family, your home
and everything."
She seated herself with an air of conscious aplomb and motioned
him to take a distant stool.
There was a great heap of dry logs in the fireplace, with pointed
flames shooting out of its crevices and leaping into the gloomy,
cave-like throat of the flue. Outside a wind passed heavily across
the roof and bellowed in the chimney-top.
Beverley drew the stool near Alice, who, with a charred stick,
used as a poker, was thrusting at the glowing crevices and sending
showers of sparks aloft.
"Why, there wouldn't be much to tell," he said, glad to feel
secure again. "Our home is a big old mansion named Beverley Hall
on a hill among trees, and half surrounded with slave cabins. It
overlooks the plantation in the valley where a little river goes
wandering on its way.
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