THE letter of Mr. Symonds found Mr. Browne at breakfast, and, what was somewhat unusual, his son was with him. To understand the object of this unusual exertion on the part of George Browne, the reader must be acquainted with the arrangement which had been made between the father and son, respecting the claims of the latter upon Donald Montrose. The losses of his summer's campaign had forced Browne to turn to his father for relief. But neither his entreaties nor those of his mother could wring from the father any thing which the son considered worth his acceptance.

  "Let him go to work and make money if he wants it, as I made mine," said the father in reply to the most pathetic representations or the most indignant remonstrances which the feminine mind, always great in these two styles of eloquence, could devise.

  The sentence seemed just, but only seemed. He had been trained for work—he had trained his son for an idler.

  Driven to extremity, George Browne hinted of securities for a loan. Mr. Browne demanded a sight of them, submitted them to a lawyer, satisfied himself the signature of

  "I almost wish now, I had never had any thing to do with this business; I should not wonder if I had trouble with it yet," said Mr. Browne, with his eyes still fixed on the letter of Mr. Symonds.

  "May I ask what business, sir?" asked George Browne.

  "Why, your business with this young southern Grandee."

  Mr. Browne spoke with irritation, but it did not lessen the smile on his son's lip, as he replied, "Is it possible, sir? I thought that could only have been a subject of gratulation with you, since the news of the old Colonel's death. Had I held the notes still, his death would not have surprised me so much, for I know the devil always helps his own."

  "Speak more reverently, sir, if you please."

  "Of the devil, father?"

  "Pooh, sir, leave your nonsense and be serious for a moment, if you can; perhaps the reading of that letter may tend to make you so, for I think it strongly insinuates what would send you to a state's prison, if it were true."

  "Is the insinuation strong enough to support a prosecution for defamation of character, sir? If so, I may make some money out of it."

  "The letter is written by a lawyer, which is answer enough to your question; but though keeping cautiously out of reach of such a result, he intimates plainly, that only the want of evidence prevents his making a direct charge of fraud, and moreover that the character of the debt, if his principal chose to plead it, would bar its recovery."

  "Well, my good sir, according to his own showing I think we are both safe enough. The want of evidence can only be supplied by sending a summons after Richard Grahame—"

  "Who is dead."

  "So the papers and letters from South America say; and as to the character of the debt, his principal will never plead that, for it was—"

  "Stop, sir," exclaimed Mr. Browne, "I wish to know nothing about it; I have paid, and am paying good money for it; to me it is a lawful debt, and I do not wish to be the confidant of your vices."

  "That is right, father," said George Browne, with no anger apparent in look or tone, "'where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise.' Still, in consideration of what you do not know, and as neither the poor devil who owes it, nor I, dreamed that the whole amount would fall due so soon, it might be well to make some reduction on the claim, provided he pays it at once. You know, with the amount you pay me, you can do it and still make a pretty penny out of the affair."

  "You know nothing about it, sir," said Mr. Browne angrily, as, pushing his chair from the table, he gathered up his letters, two or three of which he had not opened, stuffed them into his pocket and hurried from the room.

  "Know nothing about it! the devil I don't!" exclaimed George Brown as, having seen his father out of the room, he examined attentively a slip of paper, received from him that

  There must have been something in the tone of his son, which either awakened a doubt or confirmed one already existing in the mind of Mr. Browne, respecting the safety of his claim; for a fortnight after this conversation, being the day succeeding the conversation between Alice and her cousin, given in the last chapter, Mr. Symonds rode over to Montrose Hall, bringing with him a letter just received, in which Mr. Browne offered to relinquish the notes of Donald, upon the immediate payment of fifty thousand dollars.

  "Immediate payment!" exclaimed Donald, on hearing this. "How does he suppose that is to be accomplished? He knows my property does not consist, like his, of bank stock and city houses, which may be turned into gold in an hour."

  "I thought of that difficulty," said Mr. Symonds, "but we must do something to nail this offer; fifteen thousand dollars off, you see."

  "But what is the something we can do?"

  "I have no doubt your property will bring fifty thousand in the market."

  Donald walked once or twice across the floor before he replied, "I must have time in selling it; that my people may be able to select their owners. I will not sell them without consulting their wishes, to any one."

  Donald continued to pace the floor for some time, while Mr. Symonds sat silent.

  At length this gentleman said, "I tried Uriah Goldwire; I know he can always command money, and is generally willing enough to lend it on bond and mortgage."

  "And what did he say?" asked Donald quickly.

  "Very little, when he found I was acting for you only; but, I think, could I have offered a mortgage on the whole property, he would have been ready enough to lend thirty or forty thousand."

  "Where could he get such a sum?"

  "It is not very easy to speak positively to such a question, but I think he is backed by some company at the North. He certainly has great command of ready money, besides having purchased some valuable property, though he came among us, some twenty years ago, poor enough."

  "Was he not a teacher, once?"

  "Oh yes! schoolmaster, shopkeeper, any thing for money—but shaving notes was his most profitable employment till his last visit North, some ten years ago, when I think he must have made an engagement with some banking company, by which he is enabled to make larger loans on good security. Southern improvidence yields a good crop to Northern capital and thrift, and our eight per cent. interest in Georgia is a great temptation to New Englanders, who can get but six per cent. at home."

  "I should like to see this man; yet, what would be the use? Should he even advance thirty thousand dollars for us, where should I find the rest?"

  "There are ten thousand dollars in State Stock."

  "Only a third of which is mine."

  "But your mother and sister are both willing to sell out for such an object."

  "I cannot consent to that, and even if I should—"

  "It would not be sufficient, you would say. But you have forgotten your crop, which, injured as it was by the storm, is doubtless still good for some thousands."

  "But the crop has to be prepared for market."

  "Your factor would advance liberally on it, and if more were necessary your friends would make it up."

  "And my mother and sister lose—"

  "Nothing—that is, unless there should be a most unaccountable reduction in the value of property. Temporary embarrassment and constraint is all they would endure—"

  "They shall not endure it for me."

  "Well, let us go and see Goldwire. We shall not need to answer this letter; for Mr. Browne writes that he is coming for his sister and niece, and will receive your answer in person."

  Grieved at Alice, and angry with his mother, Donald was grateful for any interruption to his own thoughts, and readily agreed to visit the usurer. Accordingly he ordered a gig to be prepared, fearing that the distance, which, going and coming, was twenty miles, would be too much on horseback for an elderly gentleman like Mr. Symonds.

  Their road, after leaving the immediate neighborhood of Montrose Hall, lay through a pine forest. For eight miles, their course was over a public road, but they then turned aside into a narrower and less frequented path, which brought them in half an hour to the small and roughly built house inhabited by the usurer. This consisted of two rooms and a piazza. About a quarter of an acre of ground had been cleared of the pine trees and fenced around. Within the fence was a kitchen garden, planted with cabbages, turnips, beans, &c. A poultry yard was separated from this by a higher and closer fence, and near the house, stood a kitchen built of logs, the interstices filled with clay, and having a clay chimney. A stable, small and rudely built, completed the improvements which the usurer had made on the natural features of the scene. Besides the poultry cackling about the door, and a sorry-looking horse that, hoppled to prevent his going to a distance, was cropping the scanty herbage about the stable, the only living creature visible was a colored woman, who, with her wrapper laid aside, and her only

  "Here, my good maumer, is your master at home?" cried Donald, as he drew up his horse at the gate.

  Raising her head, she looked full at the visitors, and taking her pipe from her mouth, as she shook out the ashes from it, and prepared to replenish it from a paper, drawn from a capacious pocket at her side, she answered, "Look in de house, maussa—I spec' you fin' um;" then, advancing to the paling she added, "I slip you' hoss out, maussa, tie 'em to de fence?"

  "Thank you, maumer,—it may be well to do so," said Donald, throwing her a half-dollar in payment of her trouble.

  As he turned from her toward the house, he caught a glimpse of the usurer with a grim smile upon his face, leaving the window to which he had been called by the sound of voices. It is before me now, that long, lank, lean figure, with the well brushed and well worn clothes hanging around a form they were never made to fit; the sallow face almost beardless, and the little which nature had given it, shaved very smoothly; the small gray eyes twinkling beneath a forehead rather high than wide, and the thin, sleek, brown hair lying closely around the skull. It was well that Mr. Symonds did not trust Donald to his tender mercies alone. As it was, the interview produced only a promise from him to ride over in the morning, and see the inventory and appraisement lately made of the property left by Col. Montrose, and then to say what advance he would make on Donald's portion.

  The morning and Mr. Goldwire came. Mr. Symonds had been before him, and as soon as he was seated, papers were produced and business begun. It had not proceeded far, however, before there was an interruption. Mrs. John Mon-

  "I understand, sir, you are here for the purpose of making a loan to my son."

  "Well, I'm not quite sure about that," was the reply in the peculiar nasal twang characteristic of New England.

  "I believe, sir, you can have no other business at Montrose Hall," returned the lady with a pride that was not lost upon him to whom it was addressed, but which probably did not greatly advance her ends. "And I wish to say that if such be your object, both I and my daughter are willing to join in the security given to the full extent of our means."

  "Now, why didn't you tell me this before?" exclaimed the usurer, pushing the paper he had already covered with figures away from him. "You hadn't ought to kept it from me. Why if you all jine in the mortgage I sha'n't mind letting you have the forty thousand right away."

  "That will just do," said Mr. Symonds, "the bank stock will cover the remainder."

  "It will not do at all," cried Donald, "for I will never—"

  "Donald—my uncle," faltered Alice, who entered the room at this moment pale and agitated.

  Donald became as pale as herself, as he rose to attend her to the parlor to receive Mr. Browne; but even in that agitation he paused to say to Mr. Symonds, "I leave my interests in your hands; remember, nothing will make me consent to rob my mother and sister."

  As he closed the door after him, Donald saw that Alice was awaiting him in the hall, her face still pale, her limbs trembling, and her hands clasped.

  "What is the matter, Alice?"

  "Oh Donald! do you know who this man is that has come with my uncle?"

  "How can I know?"

  "It cannot be a sheriff—can it?"

  Alice had very confused ideas of law proceedings, it will appear; and very terrible ones of law officers.

  "A sheriff! No! what can make you believe so?"

  "He has such a hard, cruel face, and he looked at Rose and Flora"—two colored seamstresses, who were as usual at work in the parlor with the ladies—"with such horrid eyes—oh Donald! I cannot stand it;" and shuddering at the remembrance of those looks, Alice burst into tears.

  A surmise of the truth crept into Donald's mind as she spoke, and without even a soothing word to her, he hurried to the parlor, with anger flushing his brow and burning in his eyes. There he found Mr. Browne standing beside his sister, with the composed manner of one conscious of no wrong, and somewhat of the dignity of one who felt himself "lord of all he surveyed." But he attracted little of Donald's attention, for there, before him, in the home of his fathers, stood one whose presence tainted the air he breathed, and soiled the earth on which he trod. Donald had never before seen one of this tribe, and yet he knew him even in the description of Alice—still more certainly at the first glance of his own eye upon him. He was a muscular,

  Noticing Mr. Browne only by a slight bow as he passed, he stepped up to this man asking, "What brought you here, sir?"

  "Well! I hearn you was goin' for to sell your niggers."

  Mr. Browne hastened forward, "I took the liberty to bring him along from Savannah where I heard of him, thinking"—if the sentence was ever finished, Donald did not hear it.

  "Walk out, sir—walk out, and leave this place immediately. Thank Heaven! I am still master here. Begone, sir!" he added, advancing a few steps, as the man paused at the door as if to debate the point with him; "not a word—your breath is poisonous."

  The man went slowly on, and Donald followed him, till he saw him beyond the yard, when he called to Agrippa to bring back the carriage he was taking to the carriage house.

  "But what am I to do?" asked Mr. Browne, rushing forth with very undignified haste.

  "I will send you to town, sir;" and so the human tiger saw there was no help for him, and glaring upon Donald, he stepped into the carriage amid the smiles of the negroes whom the scene had drawn together.

  "You will repent this," he cried to Donald, shaking his fist from the carriage window.

  "Go," said Donald to the coachman who had driven Mr. Browne, "before I forget myself so far as to lay my hands on that scoundrel. You are from Wiltberger's—tell him Lieut. Montrose will see that his bill is paid."

  And thus assured, the man drove off, though not a little annoyed at losing the good dinner he had promised himself.

  The flush which this scene had raised, was still on Donald's cheek, and the frown upon his brow, when he re-entered the library. He advanced at once to his mother, and said, "Mother, do as you wish—free me from this man, though, by that act, you make me your own slave for life."

  For a moment—only a moment—there was a gleam of triumph in the mother's eyes; it faded even before she had said to Mr. Symonds, "Draw out the papers that are necessary, and I will sign them."

  "Your daughter must sign them too, as she is of age by her father's will."

  "I will call her when her presence is required."

  "Perhaps that will not be till to-morrow; Mr. Goldwire will probably have to return home for the funds."

  "Well I guess not," said that gentleman with a smile, which had in it a strange mixture of cunning and assurance. "I guess I can satisfy the parties concerned, with what's as good as money," and he produced scrip of stock in a well-known bank, and letters of credit on several of the first houses in Boston, which together would cover the amount.

  "Mr. Browne had better see these before you accept them," said Mr. Symonds.

  That gentleman was accordingly invited into the library, the business explained to him, and the paper submitted to his examination. He pronounced it perfectly satisfactory, and the immediate result was to lessen his pomposity, and to render him somewhat more respectful towards Donald, and even obsequious to Mr. Goldwire. While Mr. Symonds was drawing up the paper necessary for Mr. Goldwire's security, Mr. Browne attempted to apologize to Donald for the unwelcome visiter he had brought with him.

  "I heard of him," he said, "at the hotel in Savannah, where it was said that he was carrying some negroes he had purchased in Virginia, to New Orleans; and as he said he

  "Say nothing more sir,—you could not be expected to know the feelings of,"——Donald hesitated—any where else he would have said a gentleman; but it was his own house, and he said, "of a Southern gentleman towards his people."

  "And, may I ask, sir, do Southern gentlemen never sell their negroes?"

  "Never to slave dealers, sir, except it may be those who living on the borders of non-slaveholding States, have been irritated into frenzy by fanatical assaults. Under such circumstances your companion,"—Donald found a malicious pleasure in that word—"probably procured those he is now taking to New Orleans."

  "But you do sometimes sell, sir; may I ask how and to whom?"

  "His people are the last property a true Southerner will part with, but misfortune may leave him no choice. In that case it is the custom either to sell plantation, negroes and all, just as they stand, to some one who is believed to be humane; a belief which would overbear many hundreds higher bid from another applicant; or where the property must be separated, to make that separation by families, and sell these even at some sacrifice to those to whom they themselves express a desire to belong. Negroes of good character will never find any difficulty in securing good and kind masters; the incorrigibly bad of course are differently situated—were they white, they would probably be sent to a State's Prison—being black, their punishment is, the auction stand, and sale to the highest bidder, with the chance of such a master as your travelling companion."

  Mr. Browne remained silent, struck dumb probably with

  His reverie was interrupted by a call from Mr. Symonds to deliver to him the notes of Lieut. Montrose, payment of which he was now prepared to make. Beside the table stood Isabelle, waiting to sign the instrument which put her whole fortune in pledge for the payment of her brother's debt. She placed her hand in Donald's as he drew near with a look which seemed to ask, "Are not our interests the same?" Mr. Symonds laid the paper before her, and she bent over the table to sign it. As she rose, she caught for an instant the look of the usurer, which was fixed upon her with an expression that called the blood into her cheeks, and thus restored to her beauty the rich glow that sorrow had somewhat faded. The usurer greeted the change with a low chuckling laugh, and rubbed his hands together with a delight which it was well for him Donald was too much engaged to notice. To the rest, with the exception of Isabelle, it seemed only an ebullition of pleasure at having completed a good bargain.

  The papers were signed, sealed, and delivered—Donald was free from Mr. Browne at least—to Mr. Goldwire, as the instrument of that freedom, he felt unusual complacency; he shook hands with him at parting and attended him to the piazza. There the usurer lingered. "Have you any thing to say, Mr. Goldwire?" asked Donald.

  "No, sir—oh no! but Lieutenant Montrose," turning back as he spoke, "what a pretty sister you have. I'd give a good many hundreds of dollars for such a beautiful"—was it the lightning in Donald's eye that made him end his sentence with "sister" instead of wife?

  "I'd give a good many hundreds of dollars for such a beautiful sister,"—and Donald thought he envied him, and turned away feeling something like compassion for the lonely, uncompanioned man, with all his wealth. That Mr. Goldwire was quite satisfied with the results of the day, and did not consider himself at all an object of compassion, may be seen from the following letter, dispatched the next day to the nearest Post Office, and addressed to Mr. ——, President of the Loan and Trust Association, Hartford, Connecticut:

Sir:—The letters of credit I received from you on Boston have been this day transferred to Mr. Thos. Browne of that city, formerly Browne and Holden—and will doubtless be forthwith presented. I notify you of this transaction that you may take care that the houses of B—— and P——, and of C—— and W—— are in funds to meet the demand.

I have this day made a large loan, $40,000, at 8 per ct. on a mortgage of value, interest payable every six months, and mortgage foreclosed on failure. Should things turn out as I guess, I shall marry, shut up shop, and come North to live.

Yours, &c., URIAH GOLDWIRE.

  That evening Alice made her farewell visits to the negroes living at Montrose Hall, carrying to each one some testimonial of kindly remembrance, of little value in itself, but inestimable in their eyes.

  "You da gwine, Miss Alice! My Far'er! wha' I for do widout you?" asked Cato, as seated in his house, beside a cheerful blaze of pitch pine, she announced her intention to him.

  "Miss Isabelle has promised to teach any of you who wish to learn," said Alice, soothingly.

  "I sho' dat bery good in Miss Isabelle, but I'll miss you for all, Miss Alice, an' den how we know you gwine hab ebery ting you want when you get way off da?"

  "Why you must come to see me, Cato; you are a free man now. You must come and see me, when mamma and I get a home of our own; you will spare him, Auber, for that, wont you?"

  "Spare him for true Missis for go see you."

  "Very well, you must keep yourself ready, for we shall certainly send for you."

  Alice tried to speak cheerfully; but when she found she must go, when these long tried and well-known friends kissed the hands she extended to them, when she saw the tears on their cheeks, and heard Cato say, "send for me soon, Missis; sister Auber got good friend yar, an' I want to come an' take care o' you. Wa' you lib, Cato want to lib—an' wa' you dead, Cato want to dead;"^*—she could only seat herself again and weep with them.

  Donald accompanied his aunt and cousin to Savannah. He made the proposal in the presence of his mother, and when Alice would have objected said, "Permit me, Alice; it is a brother's right, the only right I claim over you now."

  "That is a right I will always admit, dear Donald," she said with tearful eyes, as she placed her hand in his.

  Mr. Dunbar's adieu was one of fatherly tenderness; her aunt's less cold than she had anticipated; Isabelle's, of passionate sorrow. Alice wept with all, clung to all; all were dear to her, till that moment she knew not how dear; and when they placed her in the carriage, and she would have taken a last look at the home she loved so well, it was seen through tears.