le
of his sorrowing soul; how eloquently it foretells the downfall of that
injustice holding him in its fierce chains!

Cicero has been nicely got out of the way. Molly, his wife, is summoned
into the presence of her mistress, to receive her awful doom. "To be
frank with you, Molly, and I am always outspoken, you know, I am going
to sell you. We have been long enough together, and necessity at this
moment forces me to this conclusion," says our venerable lady,
addressing herself to the old slave, who stands before her, leaning on
her crutch, for she is one of the cripples. "You will get a pious owner,
I trust; and God will be merciful to you."

The old slave of seventy years replies only with an expression of hate
in her countenance, and a drooping of her heavy lip. "Now," Mrs. Swiggs
pursues, "take this letter, go straight to Mr. Forcheu with it, and he
will sell you. He is very kind in selling old people--very!" Molly
inquires if Cicero may go. Mrs. Swiggs replies that nobody will buy two
old people together.

The slave of seventy years, knowing her entreaties will be in vain,
approaches her mistress with the fervency of a child, and grasping
warmly her hand, stammers out: "Da--da--dah Lord bless um, Missus. Tan't
many days fo'h we meet in t'oder world--good-bye."

"God bless you--good-bye, Molly. Remember what I have told you so many
times--long suffering and forbearance make the true Christian. Be a
Christian--seek to serve your Master faithfully; such the Scripture
teacheth. Now tie your handkerchief nicely on your head, and get your
clean apron on, and mind to look good-natured when Mr. Forcheu sells
you." This admonition, methodically addressed to the old slave, and Mrs.
Swiggs waves her hand, resumes her Milton, and settles herself back into
her chair. Reader! if you have a heart in the right place it will be
needless for us to dwell upon the feelings of that old slave, as she
drags her infirm body to the shambles of the extremely kind vender of
people.

CHAPTER XIV.

MR. McARTHUR MAKES A DISCOVERY.

On his return from the theatre, Mr. McArthur finds his daughter, Maria,
waiting him in great anxiety. "Father, father!" she says, as he enters
his little back parlor, "this is what that poor woman, Mag Munday, used
to take on so about; here it is." She advances, her countenance wearing
an air of great solicitude, holds the old dress in her left hand, and a
stained letter in her right. "It fell from