“I have been with old Mark to-day,” said Mary, “and I have been trying all means I could think of to get Becky to complain to my father, instead of the Protector, about Sunday labour: but she is so fierce, I can make nothing of her. She never said a word about it while she had her brother with her, but she declares she must make her complaints for herself now he is gone. I dread the exposure, and she might get redress from my father, I am sure.” Alfred had heard with grief that Willy and Nell were among the levied slaves. What his sister now said determined him to seek out old Mark and his daughter without delay; and the brother and sister were soon at the door of the hut. Mark was sitting in the only chair the hut contained, talking as if to people round him, though he was alone. Alfred immediately saw that the little light of intellect which old age had left was quenched. The cause of this was evident from his taking every man who came near him for Willy, and every woman for Nell. “How much did you sell the pig for?” he asked Alfred. “He brought a good price, for your clothes are as fine as a white’s.—But,” suddenly recollecting himself, “how did you get back? O, you will be flogged for a runaway.” “This is Mr. Alfred. You remember your young master, Mr. Alfred?” “Ah! Mr. Alfred is come to your wedding, Nell. Why, my wife did not look as pretty as you on her wedding-day. And who married you, and why did not you let me go to your wedding? Becky said you could not be married because they had carried you away, but now you are back again, I will sing you a song I made for you and Harry.” Presently the old man broke off singing in a great passion. “Willy, you are a dog to bring me no water when I am so thirsty;” and he shook a stick at his young master. Alfred humoured him and took down a calabash, and was filling it with water when Becky came home. “See, Becky, what it is to be married!” cried the old man. “When will you be as fine as Nelly?” Becky made no answer, but snatched the calabash from Alfred’s hand, and served her father herself. “You would not believe that I could save you from Sunday labour, Becky,” said Mary. “Here is my brother: you had better make your complaint to him.” Becky was so far from being reserved, as she had been in the morning, about this complaint, that she poured out her grievances as fast as she could speak, and far faster than Alfred could understand her. The fact was, she had applied to the Protector of slaves, and he had dismissed her complaint as frivolous and vexatious, because she owned that she had frequently gone through an equal portion of Sunday labour without complaint. She was now furious against all parties, and would scarcely hold her tongue long enough to hear Alfred say that he thought her’s a hard case, and only blamed her for not having complained long before.