ed with an oath,
that he would "soon take the devil out of him."

Matty, a sister of this lad, was next placed upon the stand. Her
beauty, which the excitement of that dreadful moment only served to
heighten, hushed for awhile the coarse jests of the crowd. She was a
splendid-looking creature, just entering upon womanhood. But her
beauty proved, as beauty must ever prove to a slave woman, a deadly
curse. It enhanced her market value, and sealed her deadly fate. It
attracted the eye, and inflamed the passions of a wealthy Louisianian,
named St. Laurent, who gave a thousand dollars in hard gold in
exchange for her, that he might make her his petted favorite. Wives,
mothers, daughters of America, have _you_ nothing to do with slavery,
when such is the fate of slave women? _Can_ you sit silent, and at
your ease, knowing that such things are?

When Matty was removed from the auction-block, she fell upon her
brother's neck, and wept such tears as only they can weep whom slavery
parts, never to meet again.

"Christine!" cried the loud voice of the auctioneer. Matty checked her
passionate grief, and turning saw her mother, with her baby in her
arms, standing where she herself had stood but just before. Quickly
her keen eye sought the form of her new master. With a sudden impulse
she threw herself at his feet, exclaiming, "O master, master, _do_ buy
my mother too!" The man gazed for a moment on the beautiful face
upturned to his, with a look which made the lashes droop over her
pleading eyes, and tapping her cheek with his finger, he said,

"What! coaxing so early, my pretty one? No, no; it will not do; I have
no use for the old woman."

"Oh, master, she is not old. _Do_ buy my mother, master!"

"Here is a prize for you, gentlemen," broke in the harsh tones of the
auctioneer. "There is the best housekeeper and cook in all Virginia.
Who bids for her? $300 did you say, sir? $325--thanks, gentlemen, but
I cannot sell this woman for a song. She is an excellent seamstress.
$400--$450--$500--I am glad to see you are warming up a little,
gentlemen,--but she is worth more money than that. Look at her! What a
form! what an eye! what arms!--there is muscle for you, gentlemen.
Upon my honor she is the flower of the lot,--a dark-colored
rose,--black, but comely; and her baby goes with her. $550, did I
hear you say, sir? Will no one give more than $550 for such a woman
and baby?"

"The baby is of no account," said Mr. St. Laurent; "