"
It must be borne in mind that all this was told by Alice in her
creole French, half bookish, half patois, of which no translation
can give any fair impression.
Beverley listened, as one who hears a clever reader intoning a
strange and captivating poem. He was charmed. His imagination
welcomed the story and furnished it with all that it lacked of
picturesque completeness. In those days it was no uncommon thing
for a white child to be found among the Indians with not a trace
left by which to restore it to its people. He had often heard of
such a case. But here was Alice right before him, the most
beautiful girl that he had ever seen, telling him the strangest
story of all. To his mind it was clear that she belonged to the
Tarleton family of Virginia. Youth always concludes a matter at
once. He knew some of the Tarletons; but it was a widely scattered
family, its members living in almost every colony in America. The
crest he recognized at a glance by the dragon on the helmet with
three stars. It was not for a woman to bear; but doubtless it had
been enameled on the locket merely as a family mark, as was often
done in America.
"The black woman was your nurse, your mammy," he said. "I know by
that and by your prayer in English, as well as by your locket,
that you are of a good old family."
Like most Southerners, he had strong faith in genealogy, and he
held at his tongue's tip the names of all the old families.
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