“Dear-a-me,” she sighs, laying the letter upon the table, kicking the cat as she resumes her rocking, and with her right hand restoring her Milton to its accustomed place on the table. “Rebecca,” she says, “will get a pillow and place it nicely at my back.” Rebecca, the old slave, brings the pillow. “There, there! now, not too high, nor too low, Rebecca!” her thin, sharp voice echoes, as she works her shoulders, and permits her long fingers to wander over her cap-border. “When ’um got just so missus like, say-da he is!” mumbles the old negress in reply. “Well, well-a little that side, now—” The negress moves the pillow a little to the left. “That’s too much, Rebecca-a slight touch the other way. You are so stupid, I will have to sell you, and get Jewel to take care of me. I would have done it before but for the noise of her crutch-I would, Rebecca! You never think of me-you only think of how much hominy you can eat.” The old negress makes a motion to move the pillow a little to the right, when Mrs. Swiggs settles her head and shoulders into it, saying, “there!” “Glad ’um suit-fo’h true!” retorts the negress, her heavy lips and sullen face giving out the very incarnation of hatred. “Now don’t make a noise when you go out.” Rebecca in reply says she is “gwine down to da kitchen to see Isaac,” and toddles out of the room, gently closing the door after her. Resignedly Mrs. Swiggs closes her eyes, moderates her rocking, and commences evolving and revolving the subject over in her mind. “I haven’t much of this world’s goods-no, I haven’t; but I’m of a good family, and its name for hospitality must be kept up. Don’t see that I can keep it up better than by helping Sister Slocum and the Tract Society out,” she muses. But the exact way to effect this has not yet come clear to her mind. Times are rather hard, and, as we have said before, she is in straightened circumstances, having, for something more than ten years, had nothing but the earnings of eleven old negroes, five of whom are cripples, to keep up the dignity of the house of the Swiggs. “There’s old Zeff,” she says, “has took to drinking, and Flame, his wife, ain’t a bit better; and neither one of them have been worth anything since I sold their two children-which I had to do, or let the dignity of the family suffer. I don’t like to do it, but I must. I must send Zeff to the workhouse-have him nicely whipped, I only charge him eighteen dollars a month for himself, and yet he will drink, and won’t pay over his wages. Yes!—he shall have it. The extent of the law, well laid on, will learn him a lesson. There’s old Cato pays me twenty dollars a month, and Cato’s seventy-four-four years older than Zeff. In truth, my negro property is all getting careless about paying wages. Old Trot runs away whenever he can get a chance; Brutus has forever got something the matter with him; and Cicero has come to be a real skulk. He don’t care for the cowhide; the more I get him flogged the worse he gets.