"Oh, young Master, I know that you will pardon me for what I am going to ask. I cannot longer restrain myself. Tell me what is to become of us? When shall we be sold? Into whose hands shall I fall?" "Alas, poor Ann, I am as ignorant of father's intentions as you are. I would that I could relieve your anxiety, but I am as uneasy about it as you or any one can be. Oh, I am powerless to do anything to better your unfortunate condition. I am weak as the weakest of you." "I know, young Master, that we have your kindest sympathy, and this knowledge softens my trouble." He did not reply, but sat with a perplexed expression, looking on the ground. "Oh, Ann, you has done gin young Masser some trouble. What fur you do dat? We niggers ain't no 'count any how, and you hab no sort ob bisiness be troublin' young Masser 'bout it," said Amy. "Be still, Amy, let Ann speak her troubles freely. It will relieve her mind. You may tell me of yours too." Sitting down upon the sward, close to his feet, I relieved my oppressed bosom by a copious flood of tears. Still he spoke not, but sat silent, looking down. Amy was awed into stillness, and even little Ben became calm and quiet as a lamb. No one broke the spell. No one seemed anxious to do so. There are some feelings for which silence is the best expression. At length he said mildly, "Now, my good friends, it might be made the subject of ungenerous remarks, if you were to be seen talking with me long. You had better return to the house." As Amy and I, with little Ben, rose to depart, he looked after us, and sighing, exclaimed, "poor creatures, my heart bleeds for you!" CHAPTER XIV. THE PRATTLINGS OF INSANITY--OLD WOUNDS REOPEN--THE WALK TO THE DOCTOR'S--INFLUENCE OF NATURE. Upon my return to the house I hastened on to the cabin, hoping to find Aunt Polly almost entirely recovered. Passing hastily through the yard I entered the cabin with a light step, and to my surprise found her sitting up in a chair, playing with some old faded artificial flowers, the dilapidated decorations of Miss Tildy's summer bonnet, which had been swept from the house with the litter on the day before. I had never seen her engaged in a pastime so childish and sportive, and was not a little astonished, for her aversion to flowers had often been to me the subject of remark. "What have you there that is pretty, Aunt Polly?" I asked with tenderness. With a wondering, childish smile, she held the crushed blossoms up, and turning them over and over in her hands, said: "Putty things! ye is berry putty!" then pressing them to her bosom, she stroked the leaves as kindly as though she had been smoothing the truant locks of a well-beloved child. I could not understand this freak, for she was one to whose uncultured soul all sweet and pretty fancies seemed alien. Looking up to me with that vacant glance which at once explained all, she said: