vice is made a pleasure, and the offspring of it become a burden on our hands, slavery affords the most convenient medium of getting rid of the incumbrance.  They sell it, perhaps profitably, and console themselves with the happy recollection of what a great thing it is to live in a free country, where one may get rid of such things profitably.  It may save our shame in the eyes of man, but God sees all,—­records the wrong!

Thus Maxwell contemplated the prospects before him.  At length he resolved to visit Marston upon his plantation, impress him with the necessity of asserting their freedom, in order to save them from being sold with the effects of the estate.

He visits Marston’s mansion,—­finds the picture sadly changed; his generous friend, who has entertained him so hospitably, sits in a little ante-chamber, pensively, as if something of importance has absorbed his attention.  No well-dressed servants welcome him with their smiles and grimaces; no Franconia greets him with her vivacity, her pleasing conversation, her frankness and fondness for the old servants.  No table is decked out with the viands of the season-Marston’s viands have turned into troubles,—­loneliness reigns throughout.  It is night, and nothing but the dull sound of the keeper’s tread breaks the silence.  His (Maxwell’s) mission is a delicate one.  It may be construed as intrusive, he thinks.  But its importance outweighs the doubt, and, though he approaches with caution, is received with that embrace of friendship which a gentleman can claim as his own when he feels the justice of the mission of him who approaches, even though its tenor be painful.  Maxwell hesitated for a few moments, looked silently upon the scene.  Trouble had already left its prints of sadness upon Marston’s countenance; the past, full of happy associations, floated in his mind; the future—­ah! that was—.  Happily, at that moment, he had been contemplating the means by which he could save Clotilda and the children.  He rises, approaches Maxwell, hands him a chair, listens to his proposal.  “If I can assist you, we will save them,” concludes Maxwell.

“That,” he replies, doubtingly, “my good friend, has engaged my thoughts by night and day—­has made me most uneasy.  Misfortune likes sympathy; your words are as soothing as praiseworthy.  I will defend my children if every creditor call me swindler.  I will destroy the infernal bill of sale,—­I will crush the hell-born paper that gives life to deeds so bloody,—­I will free them from the shame!” Thus, his feelings excited to the uttermost, he rises from his seat, approaches a cupboard, draws forth the small trunk we have before described, unlocks it.  “That fatal document is here, I put it here, I will destroy it now; I will save them through its destruction.  There shall be no evidence of Clotilda’s mother being a slave, oh no!” he mutters rapidly, running his fingers over packages, papers, and documents.  Again he glances vacantly over the whole file, examining paper