"I would not have bought the woman," said he, turning to an acquaintance, "but for the girl's importunity. I feared she would have the sulks if I didn't, and I want to keep her good-natured. I shall give the mother as a wedding-present to my daughter. But anybody may have the child, who will take him off my hands?" "I will take him, sir, and thank you too," said a little, sharp looking, bustling man, stepping briskly up, and bowing to Mr. St. Laurent. "Will you, my friend? Then he is yours, and you may take him away as soon as you please." "If I take him now, the woman will raise a storm," said the little man; "I know a better way than that," and drawing Mr. St. Laurent aside, he communicated his plan, and they parted mutually satisfied. Meanwhile the sale went on, but we will not follow further its revolting details. Christine, with her baby and Matty, were put in safe quarters for the night. Notwithstanding the intense anxiety that filled their minds, and a superstitious fear in Christine's heart that the worst had not yet come, an unaccountable drowsiness oppressed them, and before long both fell into a deep death-like sleep. Morning broke over the green earth. The sun gilded the mountain-tops, and bathing the trees in splendor, was greeted with ten thousand bird-songs. He kissed the dewy flowers, and their fragrance rose as incense on the morning air. He looked into the windows of happy homes, and wakened golden-haired children to renew their joyous sports, and mothers, whose "---- souls were hushed with their weight of bliss Like flowers surcharged with dew," sent up their morning thanksgiving to "Him who never slumbers," for His protection of their "laughing dimpled treasures." Suddenly a warm ray fell upon the face of the sleeping slave-mother. She wakened with a start, and with one wild shriek of agony sprang from the bed. Her babe was gone. Why need we dwell upon what followed? What pen can describe the anguish of the heart-broken mother, when she knew that while under the influence of opiates which she had unwittingly taken, her boy had been taken from her, and that she should look upon her darling's face no more. Mother! look at the darling nestler upon your own bosom, and ask yourself how you would have felt in Christine's place. After the first burst of agony was over, she did not give way outwardly to grief. One might have thought she did not grieve. But she carried all her sorrows in her heart, till they had eaten out her life. On the morning of Eleanore St. Laurent's bridal day, Christine was sent for to perform some service for her young mistress. But the spoil had been taken out of the hands of the spoiler--the bruised heart was at rest. The outraged soul had gone with its complaints to the bar of the Eternal. [Illustration: (signature) Anne P. Adams.] The Intellectual, Moral, and Spiritual Condition of the Slave.