--quite as well as is worth while. I don't feel any fears on that
head."

"Well," said Miss Ophelia, energetically, "I know it was one of the last
wishes of your husband that Tom should have his liberty; it was one of
the promises that he made to dear little Eva on her death-bed, and I
should not think you would feel at liberty to disregard it."

Marie had her face covered with her handkerchief at this appeal, and
began sobbing and using her smelting-bottle, with great vehemence.

"Everybody goes against me!" she said. "Everybody is so inconsiderate! I
shouldn't have expected that _you_ would bring up all these remembrances
of my troubles to me,--it's so inconsiderate! But nobody ever does
consider,--my trials are so peculiar! It's so hard, that when I had only
one daughter, she should have been taken!--and when I had a husband that
just exactly suited me,--and I'm so hard to be suited!--he should be
taken! And you seem to have so little feeling for me, and keep bringing
it up to me so carelessly,--when you know how it overcomes me! I suppose
you mean well; but it is very inconsiderate,--very!" And Marie sobbed,
and gasped for breath, and called Mammy to open the window, and to bring
her the camphor-bottle, and to bathe her head, and unhook her dress.
And, in the general confusion that ensued, Miss Ophelia made her escape
to her apartment.

She saw, at once, that it would do no good to say anything more; for
Marie had an indefinite capacity for hysteric fits; and, after this,
whenever her husband's or Eva's wishes with regard to the servants were
alluded to, she always found it convenient to set one in operation.
Miss Ophelia, therefore, did the next best thing she could for Tom,--she
wrote a letter to Mrs. Shelby for him, stating his troubles, and urging
them to send to his relief.

The next day, Tom and Adolph, and some half a dozen other servants,
were marched down to a slave-warehouse, to await the convenience of the
trader, who was going to make up a lot for auction.

CHAPTER XXX

The Slave Warehouse

A slave warehouse! Perhaps some of my readers conjure up horrible
visions of such a place. They fancy some foul, obscure den, some
horrible _Tartarus "informis, ingens, cui lumen ademptum."_ But no,
innocent friend; in these days men have learned the art of sinning
expertly and genteelly, so as not to shock the eyes and senses of
respectable society. Human property is high in the market; and is,
therefor