"Oh lor', oh lor', de poor ole 'ooman an' de boys; oh my ole heart will bust!" and, sobbing like a child, the old man sank down upon the floor, in the most abandoned grief. "Here, boys, some of you git the fiddle and play, an' I warrant that old fool will be dancin' in a minnit," said Atkins in his unfeeling way. Of course this speech met with the most signal applause from "de boys" addressed. I watched the expression of Charles' face. It was frightful. He sat in one corner, as usual, with an open book in his hand. From it he raised his eyes, and, whilst the scene between Atkins and the old negro was going on, they flashed with an expression that I could not fathom. His brows knit, and his lip curled, yet he spoke no word. When Atkins withdrew, the old man lay there, still weeping and sobbing piteously. I went up to him, kindly saying, "What is the matter, old uncle?" The sound of a kind voice aroused him, and looking up through his streaming tears, he said, "Oh, chile, I's got a poor ole 'ooman dat lives 'bout half mile in de country. Masser fotch me in town to-day, an' say he was agwine to hire me fur a few weeks. Wal, I beliebed him, bekase Masser has bin hard run fur money, an' I was willin' to hope him 'long, so I consented to be hired in town fur little while, and den go out an' see de ole 'ooman an' de boys Saturday nights. Wal, de fust thing I knowed when I got to town I was sold to a trader. Masser wouldn't tell me hisself; but, when I got here, de gemman what I thought I was hired to, tole me dat Masser Atkins had bought me; an' I wanted to go back an' ask Masser, but he laughed an' say 'twant no use, Masser done gone out home. Oh, lor'! 'peared like dere was nobody to trus' to den. I begged to go an' say good-bye; but dey 'fused me dat, an' Masser Atkins 'gan to swear, an' he struck me 'cross de head. Oh, I didn't tink Masser wud do me so in my ole age!" I ask you, reader, if for a sorrow like this there was any word of comfort? I thought not, and did not dare try to offer any. "Will scenes like these ever cease?" I fretfully asked, as I turned to Charles. "Never!" was the bitter answer. This old man talked constantly of his little woolly-headed boys. When telling of their sportive gambols, he would smile, even whilst the tears were flowing down his cheeks. He often had a crowd of slaves around him listening to his talk of "wife and children," but I seldom made one of the number, for it saddened me too much. I knew that he was telling of joys that could never come to him again. On one of these occasions, when uncle Peter, as he was called, was deep in the merits of his conversation, I was sitting in the corner of the room sewing, when Luce came running breathlessly up to me, with a bunch of beautiful flowers in her hand.