Mrs. Waldron, of course, never exacted any work of Ann.  They had bought her simply to give her a home and take care of her, and faithfully that duty was performed.  Her meals were carried from the table, and she had every attention paid to her comfort.

One bright evening, when she was feeling better than usual, she went out for a walk, and, passing Uncle Snake-bit Bob’s shop, she stopped to look at his baskets, and to let little Henry pick up some white-oak splits that he seemed to have set his heart on.

The old man, like all the other negroes, was indignant that his master should have purchased her; for they all prided themselves on being inherited, and “didn’t want no bought folks” among them.  He had never seen her, and now would scarcely look at or speak to her.

“You weave these very nicely,” said Ann, examining one of his baskets.  Uncle Bob looked up, and, seeing she was pale and thin, offered her a seat, which she accepted.

“Is this always your work?” asked Ann, by way of opening a conversation with the old man.

“In cose ’tis,” he replied; “who dat gwine ter make de baskits les’n hit’s me?  I done make baskits ’fo mistiss wuz born; I usen ter ’long ter her pa; I ain’t no bort nigger myse’f.”

“You are certainly very fortunate,” answered Ann, “for the slave that has never been on the block can never know the full bitterness of slavery.”

“Wy, yer talkin’ same ez wite folks,” said Uncle Bob.  “Whar yer git all dem fine talkin’s fum? ain’t you er nigger same ez me?”

“Yes, I am a negress, Uncle Bob; or, rather, my mother was a slave, and I was born in slavery; but I have had the misfortune to have been educated.”

“Kin yer read in de book?” asked the old man earnestly.

“Oh yes, as well as anybody.”

“Who showed yer?” asked Uncle Bob.

“My mistress had me taught; but, if it won’t bother you, I’ll just tell you all about it, for I want to get your interest, Uncle Bob, and gain your love, if I can—­yours, and everybody’s on the place—­for I am sick, and must die, and I want to make friends, so they will be kind to my baby.  Shall I tell you my story?”

The old man nodded his head, and went on with his work, while Ann related to him the sad history of her life.

“My mother, who was a favorite slave, died when I was born; and my mistress, who had a young baby only a few days older than myself, took me to nurse.  I slept, during my infancy, in the cradle with my little mistress, and afterwards in the room with her, and thus we grew up as playmates and companions until we reached our seventh year, when we both had scarlet fever.  My little mistress, who was the only child of a widow, died; and her mother, bending over her death-bed, cried, ’I will have no little daughter now!’ when the child placed her arms about her and said, ’Mamma, let Ann be your daughter; she’ll be your little girl; I’ll go to her mamma, and she’ll stay with my mamma.’