out, Missis?"

"Some four or five years, Chloe; but, then, you needn't do it all,--I
shall add something to it."

"I wouldn't hear to Missis' givin lessons nor nothin. Mas'r's quite
right in dat ar;--'t wouldn't do, no ways. I hope none our family ever
be brought to dat ar, while I 's got hands."

"Don't fear, Chloe; I'll take care of the honor of the family," said
Mrs. Shelby, smiling. "But when do you expect to go?"

"Well, I want spectin nothin; only Sam, he's a gwine to de river with
some colts, and he said I could go long with him; so I jes put my things
together. If Missis was willin, I'd go with Sam tomorrow morning, if
Missis would write my pass, and write me a commendation."

"Well, Chloe, I'll attend to it, if Mr. Shelby has no objections. I must
speak to him."

Mrs. Shelby went up stairs, and Aunt Chloe, delighted, went out to her
cabin, to make her preparation.

"Law sakes, Mas'r George! ye didn't know I 's a gwine to Louisville
tomorrow!" she said to George, as entering her cabin, he found her busy
in sorting over her baby's clothes. "I thought I'd jis look over sis's
things, and get 'em straightened up. But I'm gwine, Mas'r George,--gwine
to have four dollars a week; and Missis is gwine to lay it all up, to
buy back my old man agin!"

"Whew!" said George, "here's a stroke of business, to be sure! How are
you going?"

"Tomorrow, wid Sam. And now, Mas'r George, I knows you'll jis sit down
and write to my old man, and tell him all about it,--won't ye?"

"To be sure," said George; "Uncle Tom'll be right glad to hear from us.
I'll go right in the house, for paper and ink; and then, you know, Aunt
Chloe, I can tell about the new colts and all."

"Sartin, sartin, Mas'r George; you go 'long, and I'll get ye up a bit o'
chicken, or some sich; ye won't have many more suppers wid yer poor old
aunty."

CHAPTER XXII

"The Grass Withereth--the Flower Fadeth"

Life passes, with us all, a day at a time; so it passed with our friend
Tom, till two years were gone. Though parted from all his soul held
dear, and though often yearning for what lay beyond, still was he never
positively and consciously miserable; for, so well is the harp of human
feeling strung, that nothing but a crash that breaks every string can
wholly mar its harmony; and, on looking back to seasons which in review
appear to us as those of deprivation and trial, we can remember that
each hour, as it glided, brought its diversions and