Tom seated himself quietly, glad of the few minutes given him to examine the pretty room. Called a library out of compliment, it was more like a tiny drawing-room, so many little things of elegance were gathered here. The taste of the owner had full play, and showed itself rather too fond of gilt and bright colors, but at the same time toned down by a few Parian figures and antique vases, which showed where the wife had been at work. Tom looked at her, after his survey of the room, with eyes which certainly did not lack admiration. A delicate, fair woman, with the languid manner characteristic of her countrywomen, but with an air of refinement and culture resting upon every move of her hand and turn of her head. A vision of beauty such as Tom had never seen before. The little girl who had opened the door for him was seated at her mother’s feet, very industriously engaged in undressing a large doll, and at the same time singing softly to herself-- “Jesus loves me--this I know, For the Bible tells me so.” There she would stop, hum the remainder of the tune, and then go back to the beginning again. Tom wondered whether she knew the rest of the verse, and was longing to tell her, when his master called him, and he ceased to listen. “Tom,” said he, “I find you can write much better than I can--(my education was neglected somehow)” he added in parenthesis, moving uneasily in his chair, with a glance at his wife--“and I have much trouble in making the merchants comprehend the accounts. I thought perhaps you might know how to decipher them, and in that case I thought I would employ you to copy them, spending say an hour every evening. Of course you will be paid,” he added. Mrs. Sutherland looked up from her delicate work, and eyed the boy as he bent over the papers Mr. Sutherland laid before him. “Can this boy read?” she asked, indolently. “Yes,” replied her husband. “What does he do about the place?” “He is a field hand,” he replied. “He had better confine his attention to corn and cotton than serve you as an amanuensis. You are spoiling the hands,” she added, impatiently. Tom’s eyes never wandered from his paper, but he lost not a word, and the firm set of lips showed him no indifferent listener. “Can you read these?” asked the master with no reply to his wife’s observation. “Yes, sir, I think so.” “Well, then, let me hear them.” [Illustration: Tom made a Clerk. _Freed-Boy in Alabama._ Page 49.]