d her account current, Mr.
Forsheu being exceedingly prompt in business. There was one hundred and
twenty-nine days' feed, commissions, advertising, and sundry smaller
charges, which reduced the net balance to one hundred and three dollars.
Mrs. Swiggs, with an infatuation kindred to that which finds the State
blind to its own poverty, stubbornly refused to believe her slaves had
declined in value. Hence she received the vender's account with surprise
and dissatisfaction. However, the sale being binding, she gradually
accommodated her mind to the result, and began evolving the question of
how to make the amount meet the emergency. She must visit the great city
of New York; she must see Sister Slocum face to face; Brother Spyke's
mission must have fifty dollars; how much could she give the Tract
Society? Here was a dilemma--one which might have excited the sympathy
of the House of the "Foreign Missions." The dignity of the family, too,
was at stake. Many sleepless nights did this difficult matter cause the
august old lady. She thought of selling another cripple! Oh! that would
not do. Mr. Keepum had a lien on them; Mr. Keepum was a man of
iron-heart. Suddenly it flashed upon her mind that she had already been
guilty of a legal wrong in selling old Molly. Mr. Soloman had doubtless
described her with legal minuteness in the bond of security for the two
hundred dollars. Her decrepit form; her corrugated face; her heavy lip;
her crutch, and her piety--everything, in a word, but her starvation,
had been set down. Well! Mr. Soloman might, she thought, overlook in the
multiplicity of business so small a discrepancy. She, too, had a large
circle of distinguished friends. If the worst came to the worst she
would appeal to them. There, too, was Sir Sunderland Swiggs' portrait,
very valuable for its age; she might sell the family arms, such things
being in great demand with the chivalry; her antique furniture, too,
was highly prized by our first families. Thus Lady Swiggs contemplated
these mighty relics of past greatness. Our celtic Butlers and Brookses
never recurred to the blood of their querulous ancestors with more awe
than did this memorable lady to her decayed relics. Mr. Israel Moses,
she cherished a hope, would give a large sum for the portrait; the
family arms he would value at a high figure; the old furniture he would
esteem a prize. But to Mr. Moses and common sense, neither the blood of
the Butlers, nor Lady Swiggs' rubb