Mr. Wilson’s mind was one of those that may not unaptly be represented by a bale of cotton,—­downy, soft, benevolently fuzzy and confused.  He really pitied George with all his heart, and had a sort of dim and cloudy perception of the style of feeling that agitated him; but he deemed it his duty to go on talking good to him, with infinite pertinacity.

“George, this is bad.  I must tell you, you know, as a friend, you’d better not be meddling with such notions; they are bad, George, very bad, for boys in your condition,—­very;” and Mr. Wilson sat down to a table, and began nervously chewing the handle of his umbrella.

“See here, now, Mr. Wilson,” said George, coming up and sitting himself determinately down in front of him; “look at me, now.  Don’t I sit before you, every way, just as much a man as you are?  Look at my face,—­look at my hands,—­look at my body,” and the young man drew himself up proudly; “why am I not a man, as much as anybody?  Well, Mr. Wilson, hear what I can tell you.  I had a father—­one of your Kentucky gentlemen—­who didn’t think enough of me to keep me from being sold with his dogs and horses, to satisfy the estate, when he died.  I saw my mother put up at sheriff’s sale, with her seven children.  They were sold before her eyes, one by one, all to different masters; and I was the youngest.  She came and kneeled down before old Mas’r, and begged him to buy her with me, that she might have at least one child with her; and he kicked her away with his heavy boot.  I saw him do it; and the last that I heard was her moans and screams, when I was tied to his horse’s neck, to be carried off to his place.”

“Well, then?”

“My master traded with one of the men, and bought my oldest sister.  She was a pious, good girl,—­a member of the Baptist church,—­and as handsome as my poor mother had been.  She was well brought up, and had good manners.  At first, I was glad she was bought, for I had one friend near me.  I was soon sorry for it.  Sir, I have stood at the door and heard her whipped, when it seemed as if every blow cut into my naked heart, and I couldn’t do anything to help her; and she was whipped, sir, for wanting to live a decent Christian life, such as your laws give no slave girl a right to live; and at last I saw her chained with a trader’s gang, to be sent to market in Orleans,—­sent there for nothing else but that,—­and that’s the last I know of her.  Well, I grew up,—­long years and years,—­no father, no mother, no sister, not a living soul that cared for me more than a dog; nothing but whipping, scolding, starving.  Why, sir, I’ve been so hungry that I have been glad to take the bones they threw to their dogs; and yet, when I was a little fellow, and laid awake whole nights and cried, it wasn’t the hunger, it wasn’t the whipping, I cried for.  No, sir, it was for my mother and my sisters,—­it was because I hadn’t a friend to love me on earth.