“O, but master is so kind!”

“Yes, but who knows?—­he may die—­and then he may be sold to nobody knows who.  What pleasure is it that he is handsome, and smart, and bright?  I tell you, Eliza, that a sword will pierce through your soul for every good and pleasant thing your child is or has; it will make him worth too much for you to keep.”

The words smote heavily on Eliza’s heart; the vision of the trader came before her eyes, and, as if some one had struck her a deadly blow, she turned pale and gasped for breath.  She looked nervously out on the verandah, where the boy, tired of the grave conversation, had retired, and where he was riding triumphantly up and down on Mr. Shelby’s walking-stick.  She would have spoken to tell her husband her fears, but checked herself.

“No, no,—­he has enough to bear, poor fellow!” she thought.  “No, I won’t tell him; besides, it an’t true; Missis never deceives us.”

“So, Eliza, my girl,” said the husband, mournfully, “bear up, now; and good-by, for I’m going.”

“Going, George!  Going where?”

“To Canada,” said he, straightening himself up; “and when I’m there, I’ll buy you; that’s all the hope that’s left us.  You have a kind master, that won’t refuse to sell you.  I’ll buy you and the boy;—­God helping me, I will!”

“O, dreadful! if you should be taken?”

“I won’t be taken, Eliza; I’ll die first!  I’ll be free, or I’ll die!”

“You won’t kill yourself!”

“No need of that.  They will kill me, fast enough; they never will get me down the river alive!”

“O, George, for my sake, do be careful!  Don’t do anything wicked; don’t lay hands on yourself, or anybody else!  You are tempted too much—­too much; but don’t—­go you must—­but go carefully, prudently; pray God to help you.”

“Well, then, Eliza, hear my plan.  Mas’r took it into his head to send me right by here, with a note to Mr. Symmes, that lives a mile past.  I believe he expected I should come here to tell you what I have.  It would please him, if he thought it would aggravate ‘Shelby’s folks,’ as he calls ’em.  I’m going home quite resigned, you understand, as if all was over.  I’ve got some preparations made,—­and there are those that will help me; and, in the course of a week or so, I shall be among the missing, some day.  Pray for me, Eliza; perhaps the good Lord will hear you.”

“O, pray yourself, George, and go trusting in him; then you won’t do anything wicked.”

“Well, now, good-by,” said George, holding Eliza’s hands, and gazing into her eyes, without moving.  They stood silent; then there were last words, and sobs, and bitter weeping,—­such parting as those may make whose hope to meet again is as the spider’s web,—­and the husband and wife were parted.

CHAPTER IV

An Evening in Uncle Tom’s Cabin