“Come, come,—­don’t cry; you shall have them!” and, putting them together, he threw them into her lap, and drew Miss Ophelia with him into the parlor.

“I really think you can make something of that concern,” he said, pointing with his thumb backward over his shoulder.  “Any mind that is capable of a real sorrow is capable of good.  You must try and do something with her.”

“The child has improved greatly,” said Miss Ophelia.  “I have great hopes of her; but, Augustine,” she said, laying her hand on his arm, “one thing I want to ask; whose is this child to be?—­yours or mine?”

“Why, I gave her to you,” said Augustine.

“But not legally;—­I want her to be mine legally,” said Miss Ophelia.

“Whew! cousin,” said Augustine.  “What will the Abolition Society think?  They’ll have a day of fasting appointed for this backsliding, if you become a slaveholder!”

“O, nonsense!  I want her mine, that I may have a right to take her to the free States, and give her her liberty, that all I am trying to do be not undone.”

“O, cousin, what an awful ‘doing evil that good may come’!  I can’t encourage it.”

“I don’t want you to joke, but to reason,” said Miss Ophelia.  “There is no use in my trying to make this child a Christian child, unless I save her from all the chances and reverses of slavery; and, if you really are willing I should have her, I want you to give me a deed of gift, or some legal paper.”

“Well, well,” said St. Clare, “I will;” and he sat down, and unfolded a newspaper to read.

“But I want it done now,” said Miss Ophelia.

“What’s your hurry?”

“Because now is the only time there ever is to do a thing in,” said Miss Ophelia.  “Come, now, here’s paper, pen, and ink; just write a paper.”

St. Clare, like most men of his class of mind, cordially hated the present tense of action, generally; and, therefore, he was considerably annoyed by Miss Ophelia’s downrightness.

“Why, what’s the matter?” said he.  “Can’t you take my word?  One would think you had taken lessons of the Jews, coming at a fellow so!”

“I want to make sure of it,” said Miss Ophelia.  “You may die, or fail, and then Topsy be hustled off to auction, spite of all I can do.”

“Really, you are quite provident.  Well, seeing I’m in the hands of a Yankee, there is nothing for it but to concede;” and St. Clare rapidly wrote off a deed of gift, which, as he was well versed in the forms of law, he could easily do, and signed his name to it in sprawling capitals, concluding by a tremendous flourish.

“There, isn’t that black and white, now, Miss Vermont?” he said, as he handed it to her.

“Good boy,” said Miss Ophelia, smiling.  “But must it not be witnessed?”

“O, bother!—­yes.  Here,” he said, opening the door into Marie’s apartment, “Marie, Cousin wants your autograph; just put your name down here.”