to their apartment for the night. He was
lounging in a large easy-chair, looking over some letters that had come
in the afternoon mail, and she was standing before her mirror, brushing
out the complicated braids and curls in which Eliza had arranged her
hair; for, noticing her pale cheeks and haggard eyes, she had excused
her attendance that night, and ordered her to bed. The employment,
naturally enough, suggested her conversation with the girl in the
morning; and turning to her husband, she said, carelessly,

"By the by, Arthur, who was that low-bred fellow that you lugged in to
our dinner-table today?"

"Haley is his name," said Shelby, turning himself rather uneasily in his
chair, and continuing with his eyes fixed on a letter.

"Haley! Who is he, and what may be his business here, pray?"

"Well, he's a man that I transacted some business with, last time I was
at Natchez," said Mr. Shelby.

"And he presumed on it to make himself quite at home, and call and dine
here, ay?"

"Why, I invited him; I had some accounts with him," said Shelby.

"Is he a negro-trader?" said Mrs. Shelby, noticing a certain
embarrassment in her husband's manner.

"Why, my dear, what put that into your head?" said Shelby, looking up.

"Nothing,--only Eliza came in here, after dinner, in a great worry,
crying and taking on, and said you were talking with a trader, and that
she heard him make an offer for her boy--the ridiculous little goose!"

"She did, hey?" said Mr. Shelby, returning to his paper, which he seemed
for a few moments quite intent upon, not perceiving that he was holding
it bottom upwards.

"It will have to come out," said he, mentally; "as well now as ever."

"I told Eliza," said Mrs. Shelby, as she continued brushing her hair,
"that she was a little fool for her pains, and that you never had
anything to do with that sort of persons. Of course, I knew you never
meant to sell any of our people,--least of all, to such a fellow."

"Well, Emily," said her husband, "so I have always felt and said; but
the fact is that my business lies so that I cannot get on without. I
shall have to sell some of my hands."

"To that creature? Impossible! Mr. Shelby, you cannot be serious."

"I'm sorry to say that I am," said Mr. Shelby. "I've agreed to sell
Tom."

"What! our Tom?--that good, faithful creature!--been your faithful
servant from a boy! O, Mr. Shelby!--and you have promised him his
freedom, too,--you and I have spoken