It was the day when a number of negroes, whose master had failed to a large amount, were to be sold in the Court House, and Hugh, as he reined up a moment before it, saw them grouped together upon the steps. He had no fancy for such scenes, but the eager, wistful glances the wretched creatures cast upon the passers by awoke his sympathy, and after finishing his business he returned to the Court House just as the auctioneer was detailing the many virtues of the bright-looking lad first upon the block. There was no trouble in disposing of them all, save a white-haired old man, whom they called Uncle Sam, and who was rather famous for having been stolen from his late master and sold into Virginia. With tottering steps the old man took his place, while his dim eyes wandered over the faces congregated around him as if seeking for their owner. But none was found who cared for Uncle Sam. He was too old—his work was done, and like a worn out horse he must be turned off to die. “Won’t nobody bid for _Sam_? I fotched a thousand dollars onct,” and the feeble voice trembled as it asked this question. “What will become of him if he is not sold?” Hugh asked of a bystander, who replied, “Go back to the old place to be kicked and cuffed by the minions of the new proprietor, _Harney_. You know Harney, of Frankfort?” Yes, Hugh did know Harney as one who was constantly adding to his already large possessions houses and lands and negroes without limit, caring little that they came to him laden with the widow’s curse and the orphan’s tears. The law was on his side. He did nothing illegally, and so there was no redress. This was Harney, and Hugh always felt exasperated when he thought of him. Advancing a step or two he came nearer to the negro, who took comfort at once from the expression of his face, and stretching out his shaking hand he said beseechingly, “You, mas’r, you buy old Sam ’case it ’ill be lonesome and cold in de cabin at home when they all is gone. Please mas’r,” and the tone was so pleading, that Hugh felt a great throb of pity for the desolate, forsaken negro. “How old are you?” he asked, taking the quivering hand still extended toward him. “Bless you, mas’r, longer than I can ’member. They was allus puttin’ me back and back to make me young, till I couldn’t go backuds no more, so I spec’s I’s mighty nigh a thousan’,” was the negro’s reply, whereupon cheers for Uncle Sam resounded long and loud among the amused spectators. “What can you do?” was Hugh’s next query, to which the truthful negro answered, “Nothin’ much, or, yes,” and an expression of reverence and awe stole over the wrinkled face, as in a low tone he added, “I can pray for young mas’r, and I will, only buy me, please.”