She might scream until her voice failed; the natives would not come to her aid; they never meddled with the affairs of the whites. It may be treacherous, it may lay up a store of future woe; but it insures present happiness, and that is sufficient. While the cloth was laid, the host and Thames descended to the cellar, whence they returned, laden with a number of flasks of the same form, and apparently destined to the same use as those depicted in Hogarth's delectable print—the Modern Midnight Conversation. How could she tell him of the evil that drew her and drew her, as a needle to the magnet?—the fascinating evil that even now, escaped as it was, went on distilling its poison in her mind? "Yes, yes!" said the doctor. “My dear Vee!” Her voice became very low.
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