“Oh, yes, dear, I recollect; don’t—­don’t mention it,” said she, with a shudder of horror.  “I remember it perfectly.”

“Well, this little fellow is his son,” continued Mr. Burrell.

“Indeed! and what has become of his father—­did he die?”

“No, he partially recovered, but is helpless, and almost an idiot.  I never saw a child, apparently so anxious to get work; he talked more like a man with a family dependent upon him for support, than a youth.  I tell you what, I became quite interested in him; he was very communicative, and told me all their circumstances; their house was destroyed by the mob, and they are at present residing with a friend.”

Just then the cry of a child was heard in the adjoining room, and Mrs. Burrell rushed precipitately away, and soon returned with a fat, healthy-looking boy in her arms, which, after kissing, she placed in her husband’s lap.  He was their first-born and only child, and, as a matter of course, a great pet, and regarded by them as a most wonderful boy; in consequence, papa sat quite still, and permitted him to pull the studs out of his shirt, untie his cravat, rumple his hair, and take all those little liberties to which babies are notoriously addicted.

Mrs. Burrell sat down on a stool at her husband’s feet, and gazed at him and the child in silence for some time.

“What’s the matter, Jane; what has made you so grave?”

“I was trying to imagine, Burrell, how I should feel if you, I, and baby were coloured; I was trying to place myself in such a situation.  Now we know that our boy, if he is honest and upright—­is blest with great talent or genius—­may aspire to any station in society that he wishes to obtain.  How different it would be if he were coloured!—­there would be nothing bright in the prospective for him.  We could hardly promise him a living at any respectable calling.  I think, George, we treat coloured people with great injustice, don’t you?”

Mr. Burrell hemmed and ha’d at this direct query, and answered, “Well, we don’t act exactly right toward them, I must confess.”

Mrs. Burrell rose, and took the vacant knee of her husband, and toying with the baby, said, “Now, George Burrell, I want to ask a favour of you.  Why can’t you take this boy ?” “I take him! why, my dear, I don’t want an apprentice.”

“Yes, but you must make a want.  You said he was a bright boy, and sketched well.  Why, I should think that he’s just what you ought to have.  There is no one at your office that would oppose it.  Cummings and Dalton were with your father before you, they would never object to anything reasonable that you proposed.  Come, dear! do now make the trial—­won’t you?”

Mr. Burrell was a tender-hearted, yielding sort of an individual; and what was more, his wife was fully aware of it; and like a young witch as she was, she put on her sweetest looks, and begged so imploringly, that he was almost conquered.  But when she took up the baby, and made him put his chubby arms round his father’s neck, and say “pese pop-pop,” he was completely vanquished, and surrendered at discretion.