“How many have you in all?”

“The number of head, I suppose?  Well, there’s about thirty sick, and ten well ones what I sent to market last week.  Did-n-’t-make-a-good market, though,” he drawls out.

“You are alone in the business?”

“Well, no; I’ve a partner-Jones; there’s a good many phases in the business, you see, and one can’t get along.  Jones was a nigger-broker, and Jones and me went into partnership to do the thing smooth up, on joint account.  I does the curing, and he does the selling, and we both turns a dollar or two-”

“Oh, horrors!” interrupts the lady, looking at Mr. Praiseworthy sarcastically.  “Murder will out, men’s sentiments will betray them, selfishness will get above them all; ornament them as you will, their ornaments will drop,—­naked self will uncover herself and be the deceiver.”

“Not at all!” the Elder exclaims, in his confidence.  “The Lord’s will is in everything; without it we could not battle with the devil; we relieve suffering humanity, and the end justifies the means.”

“You should have left out the means:  it is only the end you aim at.”

“That’s like accusing Deacon Seabury of impious motives, because he shaves notes at an illegal interest.  It’s worse-because what the law makes legal the church should not make sinful.”  This is Praiseworthy’s philosophy, which he proclaims while forgetting the existence of a law of conscience having higher claims than the technicalities of statutes.  We must look to that to modify our selfishness, to strengthen our love for human laws when founded in justice.

“And who is this poor girl?” enquires Mrs. Rosebrook, stepping softly forward, and taking her by the hand.

“Marston’s once; some Indian in her, they say.  She’s right fair looks when she’s herself.  Marston’s in trouble now, and the cholera has made sad havoc of his niggers,” Mr. Praiseworthy replies, placing a chair, and motioning his hand for the lady to be seated.  The lady seats herself beside the girl,—­takes her hand.

“Yes, missus; God bless good missus.  Ye don’t know me now,” mutters the poor girl, raising her wild glassy eyes, as she parts the long black hair from her forehead:  “you don’t know me; I’m changed so!”

“My child, who has made you this wretch?” says the good lady, pressing her tawny hand.

My child!” she exclaims, with emphasis:  “My child Nicholas,—­my child!  Missus, save Nicholas; he is my child.  Oh! do save him!” and, as if terrified, she grasps tighter the lady’s hand, while her emotions swell into a frantic outburst of grief.  “Nicholas, my child!” she shrieks.

“She will come to, soon:  it’s only one of her strange fits of aberration.  Sometimes I fling cold water over her; and, if it’s very cold, she soon comes to,” Mr. Praiseworthy remarks, as he stands unmoved, probably contemplating the goodness of a forgiving God.  What magic simplicity lies concealed in his nature; and yet it is his trade, sanctioned by the law of a generous state.  Let us bless the land that has given us power to discover the depths to which human nature can reduce itself, and what man can make himself when human flesh and blood become mere things of traffic.