Iowa County democrat. [volume] (Mineral Point, Wis.) 1877-1938, 1892-08-26

Upon my knees, besides my mo.ner's
grave" she said, solemnly, Il will ask
her spirit if can forgive you"
She released herself from her fathers
grasp, and hurried into the house be-
fore lie could arrest her. The planter
rose from the ground and looked
mournfully after his daughter, but he
did not attempt to follow her.
Later in the evening Gerald Leslie
returned to New Orleans, and spent
the long hours of the night alone in his
Office face to face with ruin and des-
pair.
The one crime of bis youth had risen
to torture his remorseful soul-ghastly
and horrible shadow, it pursued the
sinner IL every place; it appeared at
fav the PHANTOM AZ rest, ana ne was
now only learning to recent.
He had never before looked upon bis
conduct to the beautiful quadroon,
Franciiia in the light Of crime. What
had he done which was not done every
day by others? WHAT was sac, lovely
and innocent being as She was, but a
slave-lIis pr0perty-bOugh with his
sordid gold-hiS to destroy as lie
pleased:
Her melancholy death he looked up
on as an unhappy accident, Tor which
he himself was in no way responsible.
That crime rested upon Silas Craig's
oyerburdened soul.
Gerald Leslie utterly forgot that had
he not been neartless enough to sell the
mother Of his only child, this cruel fate
would never have been hers.
But now the consequences OF his
crime had 0vertaken him in a manner
he had never dreamed Of: Cora, his
beloved, his idOliZed child, accused and
cursed him as the murderer Of her
mother.
1t was too horrible.
He dared not remain at the summer
pavilion. He dared not meet the re-
proachful chances Of those eyes which
appeared to him as the ghOstly 0r5s of
the late Francilia. No. alone IN his
Office, surrounded only by the evidences
Of commerce, and the Intricate calcula-
tons Of trade, he endeaVOred to forget
that ne had a daughter who no longer
loved him.
And where all this time was Cora?
Within the Venetian shutters Of her
apartment, she lay with her head
buried in the satin cushions of her
couch, weeping for the mother whose
mOurnfui face she could scarcely recall
-NtCfIIlIS III UllC IdGllCl youo4l-
full sins she so lately learned.
Bitter, bitter were the thoughts Of
the young girl, whose life had hereto
fore been one long summer sunshine.
She, the cOurted, the careSSed. the
admired beauty Of a London season.
she was a slave-an OctOrOOn-a few
drops only of the African race were
enough to faint her nature and change
the whole current Of her life.
Her father loved her, but he dared
only love Ter in secret. The proud colo
nists would have laughed aloud at the
planters affection for his half-caste
daughter. And he, too, Gilbert Mar
grave, the poet painter;' he, whose
every glance and every word had
breathcd Of admiration. almost touch
ing upon the borders of love; he would
doubtless ere long know all; and he,
too, oh, bitter misery, would despise
and loathe her.
On, thank Heaven, the unhappy girl
wrOngea the noble nature Of the En-
gliSh heart. She knew not that to the
Briton there is no such word as slavery.
She knew not that in a free country the
lowest laborer i'll the fields has as full
a right to law and justice as the proud
est noble i'll tie land.