“Oh, Garie, it was nothing of any consequence.”

“Consequence or no consequence, let me hear what it was, dear.”

“Well, as you insist on hearing it, I was about to say that I wish they were not little slaves.”

“Oh, Em!  Em!” exclaimed he, reproachfully, “how can you speak in that manner?  I thought, dear, that you regarded me in any other light than that of a master.  What have I done to revive the recollection that any such relation existed between us?  Am I not always kind and affectionate?  Did you ever have a wish ungratified for a single day, if it was in my power to compass it? or have I ever been harsh or neglectful?”

“Oh, no, dear, no—­forgive me, Garie—­do, pray, forgive me—­you are kindness itself—­believe me, I did not think to hurt your feelings by saying what I did.  I know you do not treat me or them as though we were slaves.  But I cannot help feeling that we are such—­and it makes me very sad and unhappy sometimes.  If anything should happen that you should be taken away suddenly, think what would be our fate.  Heirs would spring up from somewhere, and we might be sold and separated for ever.  Respecting myself I might be indifferent, but regarding the children I cannot feel so.”

“Tut, tut, Em! don’t talk so gloomily.  Do you know of any one, now, who has been hired to put me to death?” said he, smiling.

“Don’t talk so, dear; remember, ‘In the midst of life we are in death.’  It was only this morning I learned that Celeste—­you remember Celeste, don’t you?—­I cannot recall her last name.”

“No, dear, I really can’t say that I do remember whom you refer to.”

“I can bring her to your recollection, I think,” continued she.  “One afternoon last fall we were riding together on the Augusta-road, when you stopped to admire a very neat cottage, before the door of which two pretty children were playing.”

“Oh, yes, I remember something about it—­I admired the children so excessively that you became quite jealous.”

“I don’t remember that part of it,” she continued.  “But let me tell you my story.  Last week the father of the children started for Washington; the cars ran off the track, and were precipitated down a high embankment, and he and some others were killed.  Since his death it has been discovered that all his property was heavily mortgaged to old MacTurk, the worst man in the whole of Savannah; and he has taken possession of the place, and thrown her and the children into the slave-pen, from which they will be sold to the highest bidder at a sheriff’s sale.  Who can say that a similar fate may never be mine?  These things press upon my spirit, and make me so gloomy and melancholy at times, that I wish it were possible to shun even myself.  Lately, more than ever, have I felt disposed to beg you to break up here, and move off to some foreign country where there is no such thing as slavery.  I have often thought how delightful it would be for us all to be living in that beautiful Italy you have so often described to me—­or in France either.  You said you liked both those places—­why not live in one of them?”