The lady interrupts him, by bidding him good morning, and advising him, whenever he affects to serve the Lord, to serve him honestly, without a selfish motive.  She leaves the Elder to his own reflections, to carry his victim property to his charnel-house, where, if he save life for the enjoyment of liberty, he may serve the Lord to a good purpose.  She leaves him to the care of the christian church of the South,—­the church of christian slavery, the rules of which he so strictly follows.

As our good lady moves quickly away toward the city, the Elder looks up, imploringly, as if invoking the praise of heaven on his good deeds.  He is, indeed, astonished, that his dear friend, the lady, should have made such a declaration so closely applied, so insinuating.  That such should have escaped her lips when she must know that his very soul and intention are purity!  “I never felt like making a wish before now; and now I wishes I was, or that my father had made me, a lawyer.  I would defend my position in a legal sense then!  I don’t like lawyers generally, I confess; the profession’s not as honourable as ours, and its members are a set of sharpers, who would upset gospel and everything else for a small fee, they would!” He concludes, as his eyes regrettingly wander after the carriage.  The words have moved him; there is something he wishes to say, but can’t just get the point he would arrive at.  He turns away, sad at heart, to his sadder scenes.  “I know that my Redeemer liveth,” he sings.

In the city a different piece is in progress of performance.  Papers, and all necessary preparations for procuring the smooth transfer of the youthful property, are completed; customers have begun to gather round the mart.  Some are searching among the negroes sent to the warehouse; others are inquiring where this property, advertised in the morning journals, and so strongly commented upon, may be found.  They have been incited to examine, in consequence of the many attractions set forth in the conditions of sale.

There the two children sit, on a little seat near the vender’s tribune.  Old Aunt Dina, at the prison, has dressed Annette so neatly!  Her white pinafore shines so brightly, is so neatly arranged, and her silky auburn locks curl so prettily, in tiny ringlets, over her shoulders; and then her round fair face looks so sweetly, glows with such innocent curiosity, as her soft blue eyes, deep with sparkling vivacity, wander over the strange scene.  She instinctively feels that she is the special object of some important event.  Laying her little hand gently upon the arm of an old slave that sits by her side, she casts shy glances at those admirers who stand round her and view her as a marketable article only.

“Auntie, where are they going to take me?” the child inquires, with a solicitous look, as she straightens the folds of her dress with her little hands.

“Gwine t’ sell ‘um,” mumbles the old slave.  “Lor’, child, a’h wishes ye wa’h mine; reckon da’h wouldn’t sell ye.  T’ant much to sell nigger like I, nohow; but e’ hurt my feelins just so ’twarnt right t’ sell de likes o’ ye.”  The old slave, in return, lays her hand upon Annette’s head, and smooths her hair, as if solicitous of her fate.  “Sell ye, child-sell ye?” she concludes, shaking her head.