dsomely on one or two next gangs," he thought, "I
reckon I'll stop off this yer; it's really getting dangerous." And he
took out his pocket-book, and began adding over his accounts,--a process
which many gentlemen besides Mr. Haley have found a specific for an
uneasy conscience.

The boat swept proudly away from the shore, and all went on merrily, as
before. Men talked, and loafed, and read, and smoked. Women sewed, and
children played, and the boat passed on her way.

One day, when she lay to for a while at a small town in Kentucky, Haley
went up into the place on a little matter of business.

Tom, whose fetters did not prevent his taking a moderate circuit, had
drawn near the side of the boat, and stood listlessly gazing over the
railing. After a time, he saw the trader returning, with an alert step,
in company with a colored woman, bearing in her arms a young child. She
was dressed quite respectably, and a colored man followed her, bringing
along a small trunk. The woman came cheerfully onward, talking, as she
came, with the man who bore her trunk, and so passed up the plank into
the boat. The bell rung, the steamer whizzed, the engine groaned and
coughed, and away swept the boat down the river.

The woman walked forward among the boxes and bales of the lower deck,
and, sitting down, busied herself with chirruping to her baby.

Haley made a turn or two about the boat, and then, coming up, seated
himself near her, and began saying something to her in an indifferent
undertone.

Tom soon noticed a heavy cloud passing over the woman's brow; and that
she answered rapidly, and with great vehemence.

"I don't believe it,--I won't believe it!" he heard her say. "You're
jist a foolin with me."

"If you won't believe it, look here!" said the man, drawing out a paper;
"this yer's the bill of sale, and there's your master's name to it; and
I paid down good solid cash for it, too, I can tell you,--so, now!"

"I don't believe Mas'r would cheat me so; it can't be true!" said the
woman, with increasing agitation.

"You can ask any of these men here, that can read writing. Here!" he
said, to a man that was passing by, "jist read this yer, won't you! This
yer gal won't believe me, when I tell her what 't is."

"Why, it's a bill of sale, signed by John Fosdick," said the man,
"making over to you the girl Lucy and her child. It's all straight
enough, for aught I see."

The woman's passionate exclamations collected a crowd