Robert, save me! Oh! save me; for the love
of the dear children, save me!'

The little boy and girl took hold of his skirts, and both crying hard,
turned their faces up to his. The youngest said:

'Oh! do, massa! take us 'way from dis man; he bery bad, massa. He whip
you' little Rosey 'case she couldn't walk all de way--all de way har,
massa!'

The water gathered in Preston's eyes as he asked:

'Why did they sell you, Phyllis? Why didn't I know of it?'

'Missus went to you, Master Robert, but you warn't to home. Master had
to have the money right off. The trader was thar. Master couldn't wait
till you come back. Oh! save me! He's takin' me to Orleans, to Orleans,
Master Robert. Do save me! Think of the chil'ren, Master Robert. Oh!
think of the chil'ren!' And she loosened her hold of his limbs, and wept
as if her very heart was breaking.

Preston's words came thick and broken, his frame shook, he almost
groaned as he said:

'I would to God that I could, Phyllis; but I am in debt--pressed on
every side. I could not raise the money to save my soul!'

'O my God! what will become of us?' exclaimed the woman. 'Think of
little Lule, Master Robert! They've taken me 'way from her! Oh! what
will become of her, Master Robert? What will become of _her_?' and she
moaned and wept harder than before.

He stood like a man on whom the sentence of death had fallen. A cold,
glassy look came into his eyes, a thick, heavy sweat started from his
forehead, his iron limbs seemed giving way under him. Placing my hand
gently on his shoulder, I said:

'How much is needed, my friend?'

'I don't know,' he replied, pressing his head with his hands as if to
keep it from bursting. 'How much, Phylly?'

'Twelve hundred, Master Robert--they sold us for twelve hundred?'

'Well, well, my good woman, don't feel badly any more. I'll let Master
Robert have the money.'

The woman stared at me incredulously for a moment; then, while the
children came and clung to my coat as if I were an old friend, she said:

'Oh! bless you, sir! bless you! I will love you, sir! the children will
forever love you for it.'

A struggle seemed to be going on in Preston's mind. He was silent for
some moments; then in a slow, undecided voice he said:

'It an't right; I can't take it, Kirke. I owe you now. I'm in debt
elsewhere. A judgment has been got against me. My crops have turned out
poorly, I've been to Virginia for money, and can't get a dollar. It
would