'This day, when Meminger and I were coming over from Danville, was one of those days. It was cold; I tell you, it was almighty cold! We were on horseback, and were bundled up with any amount of clothes and mufflers, and had leggins on--as they always wear them in Kentucky when they go on horseback. We had got--you know where the turnpike forks south of the Kentucky river. One branch runs this way, to Danville; the other, that way to Lancaster and Stanford. Right here in the forks--that is the identical spot where Camp 'Dick Robinson' now is; but there was no camp there then, by a long shot. Then as you approach the river, you come down a long hill, a mile long, at least, you know. 'Well, we had got nearly to the bottom of this hill, and were coming along at a pretty good jog, when we heard some body hallooing after us, and we held up. Looking around, we saw a man running down from the house standing upon the side-hill, a little away from the road. May be you remember the house up there? Well, he was hallooing like a loon, and we waited till he came up. Soon as he got near enough to talk, he says: ''An't one o' you Mr. Meminger, the negro-trader from Lexington?' ''My name's Meminger,' said my companion, 'and I sometimes buy niggars. What do you want?' ''I want to sell you a woman,' replied the man. ''Where is she?' ''Up at my house, there.' ''Well, fotch her down, then. You don't suppose I'm going up there for any d--d niggar woman, such a day as this, do you? And be quick about it, for I don't intend to stand here in the cold.' 'The man started back for the house on the run, and kept hallooing and motioning to some one who met him on the way; and he returned to where we stood on the 'pike with as fine, healthy a looking young black girl as I have often seen. She was dressed with a single garment, which hardly covered her; and she carried in her arms a child, apparently about two or three months old, which she had wrapped up in some rags to keep it warm. ''This is the woman,' said the man. ''What do you ask for her?' said Meminger. ''I'll take eight hundred dollars for the mother and child,' said the man. ''D--n the child!' said Meminger; 'do you suppose I want two months children in my pen? If you do, you are cursedly mistaken. What will you take for the woman alone?' ''I don't very well like to part them,' said the man hesitatingly, 'and I promised my wife I wouldn't. But if you won't buy the child--' ''I tell you I won't buy the child, and that's enough,' broke in Meminger. ''---- I'll take seven hundred dollars for the woman.'