"I want you to go with me, and you will see your young missis," says M'Carstrow, shrugging his shoulders. He is half inclined to let his better feelings give way to sympathy. But custom and commerce forbid it; they carry off the spoil, just as the sagacious pumpkin philosopher of England admits slavery a great evil, while delivering an essay for the purpose of ridiculing emancipation. M'Carstrow soon changes his feelings,--addresses himself to business. "Are you in here for sale?" he enquires, attempting to whistle an air, and preserve an unaffected appearance. The question touches a tender chord of her feelings; her bosom swells with emotions of grief; he has wounded that sensitive chord upon which the knowledge of her degradation hangs. She draws a handkerchief from her pocket, wipes the tear that glistens in her eye, clasps Annette in her arms-while Nicholas, frightened, hangs by the skirts of her dress,--buries her face in her bosom, retires a few steps, and again seats herself on the blanket. "The question is pending. If I'm right about it-and I believe I'm generally so on such cases-it comes on before the next session, fall term," says the gaoler, turning to M'Carstrow with a look of wonderful importance. The gaoler, who, with his keys, lets loose the anxieties of men, continues his learned remarks. "Notice has been served how she's free. But that kind o' twisting things to make slave property free never amounts to much, especially when a man gets where they say Marston is! Anthony Romescos has been quizzing about, and it don't take much to make such things property when he's round." The man of keys again looks very wise, runs his hand deep into the pocket of his coat, and says something about this being a great country. "How much do you reckon her worth, my friend?" enquires M'Carstrow, exchanging a significant glance. "Well, now you've got me. It's a point of judgment, you see. The article's rather questionable-been spoiled. There's a doubt about such property when you put it up, except a gentleman wants it; and then, I reckon, it'll bring a smart price. There's this to be considered, I reckon, though they haven't set a price on her yet, she's excellent good looking; and the young un's a perfect cherry. It'll bring a big heap one of these days." "We won't mind that, just now, gaoler," M'Carstrow says, very complacently; "you'll let me have her tonight, and I'll return her safe in the morning." "No, no," interposes Clotilda, mistaking M'Carstrow's object. She crouches down on the blanket, as if shrinking from a deadly assault: "let me remain, even in my cell." She draws the children to her side. "Don't mistake me, my girl: I am a friend. I want you for Franconia Rovero. She is fond of you, you know."