In one of his visits, he happened to find a young girl, whom he had sold to a trader a few days previous.  His statement was, that he sold her because she had been too familiar with the overseer.  She had had a bitter life with him, and was glad to be sold.  She had no mother, and no near ties.  She had been torn from all her family years before.  A few friends had entered into bonds for her safety, if the trader would allow her to spend with them the time that intervened between her sale and the gathering up of his human stock.  Such a favor was rarely granted.  It saved the trader the expense of board and jail fees, and though the amount was small, it was a weighty consideration in a slavetrader’s mind.

Dr. Flint always had an aversion to meeting slaves after he had sold them.  He ordered Rose out of the house; but he was no longer her master, and she took no notice of him.  For once the crushed Rose was the conqueror.  His gray eyes flashed angrily upon her; but that was the extent of his power.  “How came this girl here?” he exclaimed.  “What right had you to allow it, when you knew I had sold her?”

I answered, “This is my grandmother’s house, and Rose came to see her.  I have no right to turn any body out of doors, that comes here for honest purposes.”

He gave me the blow that would have fallen upon Rose if she had still been his slave.  My grandmother’s attention had been attracted by loud voices, and she entered in time to see a second blow dealt.  She was not a woman to let such an outrage, in her own house, go unrebuked.  The doctor undertook to explain that I had been insolent.  Her indignant feelings rose higher and higher, and finally boiled over in words.  “Get out of my house!” she exclaimed.  “Go home, and take care of your wife and children, and you will have enough to do, without watching my family.”

He threw the birth of my children in her face, and accused her of sanctioning the life I was leading.  She told him I was living with her by compulsion of his wife; that he needn’t accuse her, for he was the one to blame; he was the one who had caused all the trouble.  She grew more and more excited as she went on.  “I tell you what, Dr. Flint,” said she, “you ain’t got many more years to live, and you’d better be saying your prayers.  It will take ’em all, and more too, to wash the dirt off your soul.”

“Do you know whom you are talking to?” he exclaimed.

She replied, “Yes, I know very well who I am talking to.”

He left the house in a great rage.  I looked at my grandmother.  Our eyes met.  Their angry expression had passed away, but she looked sorrowful and weary—­weary of incessant strife.  I wondered that it did not lessen her love for me; but if it did she never showed it.  She was always kind, always ready to sympathize with my troubles.  There might have been peace and contentment in that humble home if it had not been for the demon Slavery.