And then, half-maddened as he was, he turned and set himself to his business. He caused all the servants to be assembled on the lawn. He went out to them, and announced his intention of setting free, and sending all who were willing to go, to Liberia. He explained to them the good that must accrue to the younger, and more intelligent and industrious among them, who might emigrate and settle in the last-named place. This news did not take the negroes the least by surprise. They had heard whisperings of the cause that had broken off their master’s marriage, and set all his family and friends at feud with him. After closing his little speech to the assembled slaves, he singled out some dozen among them—heads of cabin families—old and steady men; and he took them with him into his library, where he explained to them, at greater length, the advantages of the plan of emigration to Liberia. And then he dismissed them, to converse with each other, to reflect, and decide what they wished to do. Next, he left his study to go and enquire if the messenger sent to his mother had returned. He found the man watching for him in the hall. He held a letter in his hand. Mr. Sutherland eagerly snatched it. It contained a few lines, formally advising him that no further communication would be received from him, which was not preceded by a full and complete renunciation of his obnoxious plans. While his gaze was painfully riveted upon this note, the second messenger arrived, bringing a letter in his hand. He seized it. _It was his own, returned unopened._ “Did you see Mrs. Sutherland, Flamingo?” “Yes, sir.” “What did she say?” “I gave her the letter, sir; she took it, and read the direction, and handed it back to me, and told me to take it back to him who sent it, and not to bring her another one.” “That will do—you may go,” said Mark, and a spasm of pain twitched his countenance, as he tore up the letter, and threw the fragments away. “That is not all, sir—there is something else.” “Well, what new stab?” he thought; but he _said_— “Well, what is it?” Flamingo took from under his arm a small packet, wrapped in tissue paper, and handed it to him. “What is this? Where did you get this?” “Miss Rosalie gave it to me to bring to you.” “You may go now,” said Mr. Sutherland, as he opened a door, and passed into the parlour, and sat down to look at the packet. It was a little morocco case, containing a lady’s small pocket Bible, bound in white velvet and silver, with silver clasps. An elegant little _bijou_ it was. Upon the fly-leaf was written, “_Rosalie Vivian, from her affectionate and happy mother._” And this writing bore a date of several years before.