WE OFTEN HEAR of the distress of the negro servants, on the loss of a kind master; and with good reason, for no creature on God's earth is left more utterly unprotected and desolate than the slave in these circumstances.

  The child who has lost a father has still the protection of friends, and of the law; he is something, and can do something—has acknowledged rights and position; the slave has none. The law regards him, in every respect, as devoid of rights as a bale of merchandize. The only possible acknowledgement of any of the longings and wants of a human and immortal creature, which are given to him, comes to him through the sovereign will of his master; and when that master is stricken down, nothing remains.

  When St. Clare breathed his last, terror and consternation took hold of his household. He had been stricken down so in a moment, in the flower and strength of his youth! Every room and gallery of the house resounded with sobs and shrieks of despair.

  Marie, at the time her husband breathed his last, was passing from one fainting fit to another; and he to whom she had been joined in the mysterious tie of marriage passed from her forever, without the possibility of even a parting word.

  Miss Ophelia, with characteristic strength and self-control, had remained with her cousin to the last—all eye, all ear, all attention; doing everything of the little that could be done, and joining with her soul in the tender and impassioned prayers which the poor slave had poured forth for the soul of his dying master.

  When they were arranging him for his last rest, they found upon his bosom a small, plain miniature case. It was the picture of a beautiful, noble woman, and in the reverse side of the case, under a crystal, was a lock of dark hair. They laid them back on the lifeless breast—dust to dust—poor mournful relics of early dreams, which once made that cold heart beat so warmly.

  Tom's whole soul was filled with thoughts of eternity; and while he ministered around the lifeless clay, he did not once think that the sudden stroke had left him in hopeless slavery. He felt at peace about his master; for in that hour, when he had poured forth his prayer into the bosom of his Father,

  "He that dewlleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in him."

  The funeral passed, with all its pageant of crape, prayers, and solemn faces, and back rolled the cool, muddy waves of every-day life; and up came the everlasting hard inquiry of "What is to be done next?"

  A few days later, Tom was standing musing by the balcony, when he was joined by Adolph.

  "Do ye know, Tom, that we've all got to be sold?" said Adolph.

  "How did you hear that?" asked Tom.

  "I hid myself behind the curtains when missis was talking with tbe lawyer. In a few days we shall all be sent off to auction."

  "The Lord's will be done!" said Tom, folding his arms and sighing heavily. He sought Miss Ophelia, who ever since Eva's death, had treated him with marked and respectful kindness.

  "Miss Feely," said he, "Mas'r St. Clare promised me my freedom. He told me that he had begun to take it out for me; and now, perhaps if Miss Feely would be good enough to speak about it to missis, she would feel like goin' on with it, as it was Mar's St. Clare's wish."

  "I will speak for you, Tom, and do my best," said Miss Ophelia; "but if it depends on Mrs. St. Clare, I can't hope much for you."

  She found Marie reclining at length upon a couch, supporting herself on one elbow by pillows, while Jane, who had been out shopping, was displaying before her certain samples of thin black stuffs.

  "That will do," said Marie, selecting one; "only I'm not sure about its being properly mourning."

  "There's one thing I want to speak with you about," said Miss Ophelia. "Augustine promised Tom his liberty, and began the legal form necessary to it. I hope you will use your influence to have it perfected. "

  "Indeed, I shall do no such thing!" said Marie, sharply. "Tom is one of the most valuable servants on the place—it couldn't be afforded anyway. Besides, what does he want of liberty? He's a great deal better off as he is."

  "But he does desire it, very earnestly, and his master promised it," said Miss Ophelia.

  "I dare say he does want it," said Marie; "they all want it, just because they are a discontented set. Now, I'm principled against emancipation, in any case. Keep a negro under the care of a master, and he does well enough, but set them free, and they get lazy and won't work, and take to drinking, and go all down to be mean, worthless fellows."

  "But Tom is steady and industrious, and pious."

  "Oh, you needn't tell me! I've see a hundred like him. He'll do very well, as long as he is taken care of—that's all."

  "Well," said Miss Ophelia, energetically, "I know it was one of the last wishes of your husband that Tom should have his liberty; and I should not think you would feel at liberty to disregard it."

  Marie had her face covered with her handkerchief at this appeal, and began sobbing and using her smelling bottle with great vehemence.

  Miss Ophelia saw at once that it would do no good to say anything more: for Marie had an indefinite capacity for hysteric fits; but she did the next best thing she could for Tom—she wrote a letter to Mrs. Shelby for him, stating his troubles, and urging them to send to his relief.

  The next day, Tom and Adolph, and some half a dozen other servants, were marched down to the slave warehouse, and turned over to the loving kindness of Mr. Skeggs, the keeper of the warehouse, to await the auction next day.

  Tom had with him quite a sizable trunk full of clothing as had most of the others of them. They were ushered, for the night, into a long room, where many other men, of all ages, sizes and shades of complexion, were assembled, and from which roars of laughter and unthinking merriment were proceeding.

  "Ah, ha! that's right. Go it, boys—go it!" said Mr. Skeggs, the keeper. "My people are always so merry! Sambo, I see!" he said, speaking approvingly to a burly negro, who was performing tricks of low buffoonery, which occasioned the shouts which Tom had heard.

  As might be imagined, Tom was in no humor to join these proceedings; and, therefore, setting his trunk as far as possible from the noisy group, he sat down on it, and leaned his face against the wall.

  "What dat ar nigger doin' here?" said Sambo, coming up to Tom, after Mr. Skeggs had left the room. Sambo was a full black, of great size, very lively, voluble, and full of trick and grimace.

  "What you doin' here?" said Sambo, coming up to Tom, and poking him in the side. "Meditatin', eh?"

  "I am to be sold at auction to-morrow." said Tom, quietly.

  "Sold at auction—haw! haw! haw! boys, ain't this yer fun? I wish I was gwine dat ar way! Tell ye, wouldn't I make 'em laugh? But how is it—dis yer whole lot gwine to-morrow?" said Sambo, laying his hand on Aholph's shoulder in a free and easy manner.

  "Please to let me alone!" said Adolph, fiercely.

  "Law, now, boys! dis yer's one o' yer white niggers—kind o' cream color, ye know, scented!" said he, coming up to Adolph and sniffing. "O, Lor'! he'd do for a tobaccershop; they could keep him to scent the snuff! Lor', he'd keep a whole shop agwine—he would."

  "I say, keep off, can't you?" said Adolph, enraged.

  "Lor' now, how touchy we is—we white niggers! Look at us, now!" and Sambo gave a ludicrous imitation of Alolph's manner; "here's de airs and graces. We's been in a good family, I specs."

  "Yes," said Alolph, "I had a master that could have bought you all for old truck!"

  "Law, now, only think," said Sambo, "the gentlemans we is!"

  "I belonged to the St. Clare family," said Adolph, proudly.

  "Lor', did ye? Be hanged if they ar'n't lucky to get shet of ye. S'pects they's agwine to trade ye off with a lot o' cracked teapots and sich like!" said Sambo, with a provoking grim.

  Adolph, enraged at this taunt, flew furiously at his adversary, swearing, and striking on every side of him. The rest laughed and shouted, and the uproar brought the keeper to the door.

  "What now, boys? Order—order!" he said, coming in and flourishing a large whip.

  All fled in different directions, except Sambo, who, presuming on the favor which the keeper had to him as licensed wag, stood his ground, ducking his head with a facetious grin, whenever the master made a dive at him.

  "Lor', master, 'tain't us—we's regular stiddy—it's yer these new hands; they's real aggravatin'—kinder pickin' at us all the time."

  The keeper, at this, turned upon Tom and Adolph, and distributing a few kicks and cuffs without much inquiry, and leaving general orders for all to be good boys and go to sleep, left the room.

  While this scene was going on in the men's sleeping room, let us take a peep at the apartment allotted to the women. Stretched out in various attitudes over the floor, may be seen numberless sleeping forms of every shade of complexion, from the purest ebony to white, and of all years, from childhood to old age, lying now asleep. Here is a bright, fine girl of ten years, whose mother was sold yesterday, and who to-night cried herself to sleep when nobody was looking at her. Here, a worn old negress, whose thin arms and callous fingers tell of hard toil, waiting to be sold on the morrow, as a cast-off article, for what can be got for her; and some forty or fifty others, with heads variously enveloped in blankets, or articles of clothing, lie stretched around them. But in a corner, sitting apart from the rest, are two women of a more interesting appearance than common. One of them is a respectably dressed mulatto woman between forty-five and fifty, with soft eyes, and a gentle, pleasant face. She has on her head a high-raised turban, made of a gay red Madras handkerchief, of the best quality, and her dress fits neatly and is of good material, showing that she has been provided for with a careful hand. By her side, and nestling close to her, is a young girl of fifteen—her daughter. She is a quadroon, as may be seen from her

  These two, whom we shall call Susan and Emmeline, had been the personal attendants of an amiable, pious lady of New Orleans, by whom they had been carefully and piously instructed and trained. They had been taught to read and write, diligently instructed in the truths of religion, and their lot had been as happy a one as in their condition it was possible to be. But the only son of their protectress had the management of her property; and, by carelessness and extravagance involved it to a large amount, and at last failed. One of the largest creditors attached the real estate and a lot of the plantation hands. This creditor, whom we shall call Mr. B., was a Christian man, living in New York, and as such, felt a little uneasy at the thought of trading in slaves; but they were worth a deal of money—rather too much to be lost for principle; and so, after considering and asking advice from those whom he knew would advise to suit him, Mr. B. wrote to his lawyer in New Orleans to dispose of the business in the way that seemed to him the most suitable, and remit the proceeds.

  The day after the letter arrived in New Orleans, Susan and Emmeline were attached and sent to the depot to await a general auction on the following morning; and as we can see them faintly in the moonlight which steals through the grated window, we may listen to their conversation. Both are weeping, but each quietly, that the others may not hear.

  "Mother, just lay your head on my lap, and see if you can't sleep a little, " says the girl, trying to appear calm.

  "I haven't any heart to sleep, Em; I can't; it's the last night we may be together."

  "O, mother, don't say so! Perhaps we shall get sold together."

  "If 'twas anybody else, I should say so, too, Em," said the mother; "but I'm so feared of losin' you that I don't see anything but the danger."

  "Why, mother, the man said we were both likely, and would sell well."

  Susan remembered the man's looks and words. With a deadly sickness at her heart, she remembered how he had looked at Emmeline's hands, and lifted up her curly hair, and pronounced her a first-rate article.

  "Mother, I think I might do first-rate as a chamber-maid or seamstress in some family, if you could only get a place as cook in the same place. I dare say we shall. Let's both look as bright and lively as we can, and tell all we can do, and perhaps we shall," said Emmeline.

  "I want you to brush your hair all back straight, to-morrow," said Susan.

  "What for, mother? I don't look near so well that way."

  "Yes, but you'll sell better so."

  "I don't see why," said the child.

  "Respectable families would be more apt to buy you, if they saw you looked plain and decent, not as if you were trying to look handsome. I know their ways better than you do," said Susan.

  "Well, mother, then I will."

  "And, Emmeline, if we shouldn't ever see each other again, after to-morrow—if I'm sold way up on a plantation somewhere and you somewhere else, always remember how you've been brought up, and all missis has told you; take your Bible with you, and your hymn book; and if you're faithful to the Lord, he'll be faithful to you."

  The soft, earnest, quiet moonbeam looks in fixedly marking the bars of the grated windows on the prostrate, sleeping forms. The mother and daughter are singing together a wild, melancholy dirge, common among the slaves as a funeral hymn.

  The words, sung by voices of a peculiar and melancholy sweetness, in an air which seemed like the sighing of earthly despair after heavenly hope, floated through the dark prison rooms with a pathetic cadence, as verse after verse was breathed out.

  Sing on, poor souls! The night is short, and the morning will part you forever.

  But now it is morning, and everybody is astir; and the worthy Mr. Skeggs is busy and bright, for a lot of goods is to be fitted out; orders passed around to everyone to put on their best face and be spry; and now all are arranged in a circle for a last review, before they are marched up to the bourse.

  Mr. Skeggs, with his palmetto on and his cigar in his mouth, walks round to put farewell touches on his wares. "How's this?" he said, stepping in front of Susan and Emmeline. "Where's your curls, gal?"

  The girl looked timidly at her mother, who, with the smooth adroitness common among her class, answers:

  "I was telling her last night to put up her hair smooth and neat, and not have it flying about in curls; looks more respectable so."

  "Bother!" said the man, peremptorily, turning to the girl; "you go right along and curl yourself real smart!" he added, giving a crack to a rattan he held in his hand. "And be back in quick time, too."

  "You go and help her," he added, to the mother. "Them curls may make a hundred dollars difference in the sale of her."

  Beneath a splendid dome were men of all nations, moving to and fro, over the marble pavement. On every side of the circular area were little stations for the use of speakers and auctioners. Two of these, on opposite

  "Hulloa, Alf! what brings you here?" said a young exquisite, slapping the shoulder of a sprucely dressed young man who was examining Adolph through an eye-glass.

  "Well, I was wanting a valet, and I heard that St. Clare's lot was going. I thought I'd just look at his——"

  "Catch me ever buying any of St. Clare's people! Spoiled niggers, every one. Impudent as the devil!" said the other.

  "Never fear that!" said the first man. "If I get them, I'll soon have their airs out of them; they'll soon find that they've got a different sort of a master to deal with than Monsieur St. Clare. 'Pon my word, I'll buy that fellow. I like the shape of him."

  "You'll find it'll take all you've got to keep him. He's deucedly extravagant!"

  "Yes, but my lord will find that he can't be extravagant with me. Just let him be sent to the calaboose a few times, and thoroughly dressed down! I'll tell you if it don't bring him to a sense of his ways! O, I'll reform him, up hill and down—you'll see. I'll buy him, that's flat."

  Tom had been standing wistfully examining the multitude of faces thronging around him, for one whom he would wish to call master. And if you should ever be under the same necessity of selecting, out of two hundred men, one who was to be your absolute owner and disposer, you would perhaps realize, just as Tom did, how few there were that you would feel at all comfortable in being made over to. Tom saw abundance of men—great, burly, gruff men; little, chirping, dried men; long-favored, lank, hard men; and every variety of stubbed-looking, commonplace men, who pick up their fellow men as one picks up chips, putting them into the fire or basket with equal unconcern, according to their convenience, but he saw no St. Clare.

  A little before the sale commenced, a short, broad, muscular man, in a checked shirt considerably open at the neck, and pantaloons much the worse for dirt and wear, elbowed his way through the crowd, like one who is going actively into a business; and coming up to the group, began to examine them systematically. From the moment that Tom saw him approach-

  "Where was you raised?" he asked, briefly of Tom.

  "In Kentuck, mas'r" said Tom, looking about, as for deliverance.

  "What have you done?"

  "Had care of mas'r's farm," said Tom.

  "Likely story!" said the other, shortly, as he passed on. He paused a moment before Adolph; then spitting a discharge of tobacco juice on his well polished boots, and giving a contemptuous grunt, he walked on. At last he stopped before Susan and Emmeline. He put out his heavy, hand and drew her toward him; passed it over her neck and bust, felt her arms, looked at her teeth, and then pushed her back against her mother, whose patient face showed the suffering she had been going through at every movement of the hideous stranger.

  The girl was frightened and began to cry.

  "Stop that, you minx," said the salesman; "no whimpering here—the sale is going to begin"

  Adolph was knocked off at a good sum to the young gentleman who had previously stated his intention of buying him; and the other St. Clare servants went to various bidders.

  "Now, up with you, boy! d'ye hear?" said the auctioneer to Tom.

  Tom stepped upon the block, gave a few anxious looks round—all seemed mingled in a common, indistinct noise—the clatter of the salesman crying off his qualifications in French and English, the quick fire of French and English bids; and almost in a moment came the final thump of the hammer, and the clear ring on the last syllable of the word, "dollars," as the auctioneer announced his price, and Tom was made over. He had a master!

  He was pushed from the block. The short, bullet-headed man seized him roughly by the shoulder, pushed him to one side, saying in a harsh tone, "Stand there, you!"

  Tom hardly realized anything; but still the bidding went on—rattling, clattering, now French, now English. Down goes the hammer again—

  "O, mas'r, please do buy my daughter!"

  "I'd like to, but I'm afraid I can't afford it," said the gentleman, looking with painful interest, as the young girl mounted the block, and looked about her with a frightened and timid glance. The blood flushes painfully in her otherwise colorless cheek, her eye has a feverish fire, and her mother groans to see that she looks more beautiful than she ever saw her look before. The auctioneer sees his advantage, and expatiates volubly in mingled French and English, and bids rise in rapid succession.

  "I'll do anything in reason," said the kind old gentleman, pressing in and joining with the bidders. In a few moments they have run beyond his purse. He is silent; the auctioneer grows warmer; but bids gradually drop off. It lies now between an old gentleman and our bullet-headed friend. The old gentleman bids for a few turns; but the bullet-headed man has the advantage over him in length of purse, and the controversy lasts but a moment; the hammer falls—he has got the girl, body and soul, unless God help her. Her master is Mr. Legree, who now owns a cotton plantation on the Red River. She is pushed along into the same lot with Tom and two other men, and goes off, weeping as she goes.

  The benevolent gentleman is sorry; but then, the thing happens every day! One sees girls and mothers crying, at these sales, always. It can't be helped, and he walks off, with his acquisition, in another direction.

  On the lower part of a small, mean boat, on the Red River, Tom sat—chains on his wrists, chains on his feet, and a weight heavier than chains lay on his heart. All had faded from his sky—moon and star; all had passed by him, as the trees and banks were now passing, to return no more. Kentucky home, with wife and children, and indulgent owners; St. Clare home, with all its refinements and splendors; the golden head of Eva, with its saint-like eyes; the proud, gay, handsome, seemingly careless, yet ever kind St. Clare; hours of ease and indulgent leisure—all gone! and in place thereof, what remains?

  Mr. Simon Legree, Tom's master, had purchased slaves at one place and another, in New Orleans, to the number of eight, and had driven them, handcuffed, in couples of two and two, down to the good steamer Pirate, which lay at the levee, ready for the trip up the Red River.

  Having got them fairly on board, and the boat being off, he came round, with that air of efficiency which ever characterized him, to take a review of

  "Stand up."

  Tom stood up.

  "Take off that stock!" and, as Tom, encumbered by his fetters, proceeded to do so, he assisted him, by pulling it, with no gentle hand, from his neck, and putting it in his pocket.

  Legree now turned to Tom's trunk, which, previous to this, he had been ransacking, and, taking from it a pair of old pantaloons and a dilapidated coat, which Tom had been wont to put on about his stable work, he said, liberating Tom from his fetters, and pointing to a recess among the boxes,

  "You go there and put these on."

  Tom obeyed, and in a few minutes returned.

  "Take off your boots, " said Mr. Legree.

  Tom did so.

  "There," said the former, throwing him a pair of coarse, stout shoes, such as were common among the slaves, "put these on."

  In Tom's hurried exchange, he had not forgotten to transfer his cherished Bible to his pocket. It was well he did so, for Mr. Legree, having refitted Tom's handcuffs and feet fetters, proceeded deliberately to investigate the contents of his pockets. He drew out a silk handkerchief, and put it into his own pocket. Several little trifles, which Tom had treasured, chiefly because they had amused Eva, he looked upon with a contemptuous grunt, and then tossed them over his shoulder into the river.

  Tom's Methodist hymn-book, which, in his hurry, he had forgotten, he now held up and turned over.

  "Humph! pious, to be sure. So, what's yer name—you belong to the church, eh?"

  "Yes, mas'r," said Tom, firmly.

  "Well, I'll soon have that out of you. I have none o' yer bawlin', prayin', singin' niggers on my place; so remember. Now, mind yourself," he said with a stamp and a fierce glance of his gray eye directed at Tom, "I'm your church now! You understand—you've got to be as I say."

  Something within the silent black man answered "No!" and, as if repeated by an invisible voice, came the words of an old prophetic scroll, as Eva had often read them to him: "Fear not, for I have redeemed thee. I have called thee by my name. Thou are MINE!"

  But Simon Legree heard no voice. That voice is one he never shall hear. He only glared for a moment at Tom and walked on. He took Tom's trunk, which contained a very neat and abundant wardrobe, to the forecastle, where it was soon surrounded by various hands of the boat. With

  This little affair being over, Simon sauntered up to his property.

  "I say, all on ye," he said, "look, at me, look at me, look me straight in the eye, now!" said he, stamping his foot at every pause.

  As by a fascination, every eye was now directed to the glaring, greenish-gray eye of Simon.

  "Now," said he, doubling his heavy fist into something resembling a blacksmith's hammer, "d'ye see this fist? Heft it!" he said, bringing it down on Tom's hand. "Look at these yer bones! Well, I tell ye this yer fist has got hard as iron, knocking niggers down. I tell yer I never see a nigger yet I couldn't bring down with one crack," said he, bringing his fist down so near to Tom's face that he winced and drew back. "I don't keep none o' yer cursed overseers; I does my own overseeing; and tell I you I take care that things is seen to. You every one on ye got to toe the mark, I tell ye; quick—straight—the moment I speak. That's the way to keep in with me. Ye won't find no soft spot in me nowhere. So, now, mind yerselves. I don't show no mercy!"

  The women involuntarily drew in their breath, and the whole gang sat with downcast eyes and dejected faces. Meanwhile, Simon turned on his heel, and marched up to the bar of the boat for a dram.

  "That's the way I begin with my niggers," he said to a gentlemanly man, who had stood by him during his speech. "It's my system to begin strong; just let 'em know what to expect."

  "Indeed!" said the stranger, looking upon him with the curiosity of a naturalist studying some out of the way specimen.

  "Yes, indeed. I'm none of yer gentlemen planters, with lily fingers, to slop around and be cheated by some old cuss of an overseer! Just feel of my knuckles, now; look at my fist. Tell ye sir, the flesh on't has come jest like a stone, practising on niggers—feel on it."

  The stranger applied his fingers to the implement in question, and said,

  "'Tis hard enough; and, I suppose," he added, "practise has made your heart just like it."

  "Why, yes, I may say so," said Simon, with a hearty laugh. "I reckon there's as little soft in me as in any one going. Tell you, nobody comes it over me! Niggers never gets round me, neither with squalling nor soft soap, that's a fact."

  "You have a fine lot there."

  "Real," said Simon. "There's that Tom, they telled me he was suthin' uncommon. I paid a little high for him, 'tendin' him for a driver and a managin' chap; only get the notions out that he's larnt by bein' treated as niggers never ought to be, and he'll do prime! The yellow woman I got took in in. I rayther think she's sickly, but I shall put her through for what she is worth; she may last a year or two. I don't go for savin' niggers. Use 'em up, and buy more's my way; makes you less trouble, and I'm quite sure it comes cheaper in the end;" and Simon sipped his glass.

  "And how long do they generally last?" asked the stranger.

  "Well, I dunno; 'cordin' as their constitution is. Stout fellers last six or seven years; trashy ones gets worked up in two or three. I used to, when I fust begun, have considerable trouble fussin' with 'em and trying to make 'em hold out, doctorin' on 'em up when they's sick, and givin' on 'em clothes and blankets; and what not, tryin' to keep 'em all sort o' decent and comfortable. Law, 'twasn't no sort o' use; I lost money on 'em, and 'twas heaps o' trouble. Now, you see, I jest put 'em straight through, sick or well. When one nigger's dead, I buy another; and I find it comes cheaper and easier, every way."

  The stranger turned away, and seated himself beside a gentleman, who had been listening to the conversation with repressed uneasiness.

  "You must not take that fellow to be a representative specimen of the southern planters," said he.

  "I should hope not," replied the other with emphasis.

  "He is a low, mean, brutal fellow," said the other.

  "And yet your laws allow him to hold any number of human beings subject to his absolute will, without even a shadow of protection; and, low as he is, you cannot say there are not many such as he."

  "Well," said the other, "there are also many humane and considerate men among the planters."

  "Granted," replied the young man; "but, in my opinion, it is you considerate, humane men that are responsible for all the brutality and outrage wrought by these wretches; because, if it were not for your sanction and influence, the whole system could not keep foot-hold for an hour. If there were no planters except such a one as that," said he, pointing to Legree, who stood with his back to them, "the whole thing would go down like a millstone. It is your respectability and humanity that licenses and protects his brutality."

  "You certainly have a high opinion of my good nature," said the planter, smiling; "but I advise you not to talk quite so loud, as there are people on board this boat who are not quite so tolerant to opinion as I am. You had better wait till I get up to my plantation, and there you may abuse us all, quite at your leisure."

   The young gentleman colored and smiled, and the two were soon busy in a game of backgammon. Meanwhile, another conversation was going on in the lower part of the boat, between Emmeline and the mulatto woman with whom she was confined. As was natural, they were exchanging with each other some particulars of their history.

  "Who did you belong to?" said Emmeline.

  "Well, my mas'r was Mr. Ellis—lived on Levee Street. P'raps you've seen the house."

  "Was he good to you?"

  "Mostly, till he tuk sick; he's lain sick, off and on, more than six months, and been orful oneasy. 'Pears like he warn't willin' to have nobody rest, day nor night; and got so curis, there couldn't nobody suit him. 'Pears like he jest grew crosser and crosser, every day; kept me up nights till I got farly beat out, and couldn't keep awake no longer; and 'cause I got to sleep one night, Lors, he talk so orful to me, and he tell me he'd sell me to jest the hardest master he could find; and he promised me my freedom, too, when he died."

  "Had you any friends?" asked Emmeline.

  "Yes, my husband—he's a blacksmith. Mas'r gen'ly hired him out. They took me off so quick, I didn't even have time to see him; and I's got four child' en. O, dear me!" cried the woman, covering her face with her hands.

  It was a natural impulse, in every one, when they hear a tale of distress, to think of something to say by way of consolation. Emmeline wanted to say something, but she could not think of anything to say. What was there to be said? As by common consent, they both avoided, with fear and dread, all mention of the horrible man who was now their master.

  True, there is a religious trust for even the darkest hour. The mulatto woman was a member of the Methodist church, and had an unenlightened but very sincere spirit of piety. Emmeline had been educated much more intelligently—taught to read and write, and diligently instructed in the Bible, by the care of a faithful and pious mistress; yet, would it not try the faith of the firmest Christian, to find themselves abandoned, apparently of God, in the grasp of ruthless violence? How much more must it shake the faith of Christ's poor little ones, weak in knowledge and tender in years!

  The boat moved on—freighted with its weight of sorrow,—up the red, muddy, turbid current, through the abrupt, tortuous windings of the Red River; and sad eyes gazed wearily on the steep red clay banks, as they glided by in dreary sameness. At last the boat stopped at a small town, and Legree, with his party, disembarked.