Mr. Peterkin entered the handsome house, of which he was the rich and respected owner, whilst I, conducted by Nace, repaired to a dismal cabin. After repeated knocks at the door of this most wretched hovel, an old crone of a negress muttered between her clenched teeth, "Who's dar?" "It's me, Polly; what you be 'bout dar, dat you don't let me in?" "What for you be bangin' at my cabin? I's got no bisness wid you." "Yes, but I's got bisness wid you; stir yer ole stumps now." "I shan't be for troublin' mysef and lettin' you in my cabin at dis hour ob de night-time; and if you doesn't be off, I'll make Massa gib you a sound drubbin' in de mornin'." "Ha, ha! now I'm gots you sure; for massa sends me here himsef." This was enough for Polly; she broke off all further colloquy, and opened the door instantly. The pale moonlight rested as lovingly upon that dreary, unchinked, rude, and wretched hovel, as ever it played over the gilded roof and frescoed dome of ancient palaces; but ah, what squalor did it not reveal! There, resting upon pallets of straw, like pigs in a litter, were groups of children, and upon a rickety cot the old woman reposed her aged limbs. How strange, lonely, and forbidding appeared that tenement, as the old woman stood in the doorway, her short and scanty kirtles but poorly concealing her meagre limbs. A dark, scowling countenance looked out from under a small cap of faded muslin; little bleared eyes glared upon me, like the red light of a heated furnace. Instinctively I shrank back from her, but Nace was tired, and not wishing to be longer kept from his bed, pushed me within the door, saying-- "Thar, Polly, Massa say dat gal mus' sleep in dar." "Come 'long in, gal," said the woman, and closing the door, she pointed to a patch of straw, "sleep dar."