for the cowhide; the more I get him flogged the worse he
gets. Curious creature! And his old woman, since she broke her leg, and
goes with a crutch, thinks she can do just as she pleases. There is
plenty of work in her--plenty; she has no disposition to let it come
out, though! And she has kept up a grumbling ever since I sold her
girls. Well, I didn't want to keep them all the time at the
whipping-post; so I sold them to save their characters." Thus Mrs.
Swiggs muses until she drops into a profound sleep, in which she
remains, dreaming that she has sold old Mumma Molly, Cicero's wife, and
with the proceeds finds herself in New York, hob-nobbing it with Sister
Slocum, and making one extensive donation to the Tract Society, and
another to the fund for getting Brother Singleton Spyke off to Antioch.
Her arrival in Gotham, she dreams, is a great event. The Tract Society
(she is its guest) is smothering her with its attentions. Indeed, a
whole column and a half of the very conservative and highly respectable
old _Observer_ is taken up with an elaborate and well-written history of
her many virtues.

The venerable old lady dreams herself into dusky evening, and wakes to
find old Rebecca summoning her to tea. She is exceedingly sorry the old
slave disturbed her. However, having great faith in dreams, and the one
she has just enjoyed bringing the way to aid Sister Slocum in carrying
out her projects of love so clear to her mind, she is resolved to lose
no time in carrying out its principles. Selling old Molly won't be much;
old Molly is not worth much to her; and the price of old Molly (she'll
bring something!) will do so much to enlighten the heathen, and aid the
Tract Society in giving out its excellent works. "And I have for years
longed to see Sister Slocum, face to face, before I die," she says. And
with an affixed determination to carry out this pious resolve, Mrs.
Swiggs sips her tea, and retires to her dingy little chamber for the
night.

A bright and cheerful sun ushers in the following morning. The soft rays
steal in at the snuffy door, at the dilapidated windows, through the
faded curtains, and into the "best parlor," where, at an early hour,
sits the antique old lady, rummaging over some musty old papers piled on
the centre-table. The pale light plays over and gives to her features a
spectre-like hue; while the grotesque pieces of furniture by which she
is surrounded lend their aid in making complete the picture o