y over and over on the coarse
shirt, already as smooth as hands could make it; and finally setting her
iron suddenly down with a despairing plunge, she sat down to the table,
and "lifted up her voice and wept."

"S'pose we must be resigned; but oh Lord! how ken I? If I know'd
anything whar you 's goin', or how they'd sarve you! Missis says she'll
try and 'deem ye, in a year or two; but Lor! nobody never comes up that
goes down thar! They kills 'em! I've hearn 'em tell how dey works 'em up
on dem ar plantations."

"There'll be the same God there, Chloe, that there is here."

"Well," said Aunt Chloe, "s'pose dere will; but de Lord lets drefful
things happen, sometimes. I don't seem to get no comfort dat way."

"I'm in the Lord's hands," said Tom; "nothin' can go no furder than he
lets it;--and thar's _one_ thing I can thank him for. It's _me_
that's sold and going down, and not you nur the chil'en. Here you're
safe;--what comes will come only on me; and the Lord, he'll help me,--I
know he will."

Ah, brave, manly heart,--smothering thine own sorrow, to comfort thy
beloved ones! Tom spoke with a thick utterance, and with a bitter
choking in his throat,--but he spoke brave and strong.

"Let's think on our marcies!" he added, tremulously, as if he was quite
sure he needed to think on them very hard indeed.

"Marcies!" said Aunt Chloe; "don't see no marcy in 't! 'tan't right!
tan't right it should be so! Mas'r never ought ter left it so that ye
_could_ be took for his debts. Ye've arnt him all he gets for ye, twice
over. He owed ye yer freedom, and ought ter gin 't to yer years ago.
Mebbe he can't help himself now, but I feel it's wrong. Nothing can't
beat that ar out o' me. Sich a faithful crittur as ye've been,--and
allers sot his business 'fore yer own every way,--and reckoned on him
more than yer own wife and chil'en! Them as sells heart's love and
heart's blood, to get out thar scrapes, de Lord'll be up to 'em!"

"Chloe! now, if ye love me, ye won't talk so, when perhaps jest the last
time we'll ever have together! And I'll tell ye, Chloe, it goes agin me
to hear one word agin Mas'r. Wan't he put in my arms a baby?--it's natur
I should think a heap of him. And he couldn't be spected to think so
much of poor Tom. Mas'rs is used to havin' all these yer things done for
'em, and nat'lly they don't think so much on 't. They can't be spected
to, no way. Set him 'longside of other Mas'rs--who's had the treatment
and li