should have thought, that witnessed the sunken and dejected
expression on those dark faces; the wistful, patient weariness with
which those sad eyes rested on object after object that passed them in
their sad journey.

Simon rode on, however, apparently well pleased, occasionally pulling
away at a flask of spirit, which he kept in his pocket.

"I say, _you!_" he said, as he turned back and caught a glance at the
dispirited faces behind him. "Strike up a song, boys,--come!"

The men looked at each other, and the "_come_" was repeated, with a
smart crack of the whip which the driver carried in his hands. Tom began
a Methodist hymn.

"Jerusalem, my happy home,
Name ever dear to me!
When shall my sorrows have an end,
Thy joys when shall--"*

* "_Jerusalem, my happy home_," anonymous hymn dating from
the latter part of the sixteenth century, sung to the tune
of "St. Stephen." Words derive from St. Augustine's
_Meditations_.

"Shut up, you black cuss!" roared Legree; "did ye think I wanted any
o' yer infernal old Methodism? I say, tune up, now, something real
rowdy,--quick!"

One of the other men struck up one of those unmeaning songs, common
among the slaves.

"Mas'r see'd me cotch a coon,
High boys, high!
He laughed to split,--d'ye see the moon,
Ho! ho! ho! boys, ho!
Ho! yo! hi--e! _oh!"_

The singer appeared to make up the song to his own pleasure, generally
hitting on rhyme, without much attempt at reason; and the party took up
the chorus, at intervals,

"Ho! ho! ho! boys, ho!
High--e--oh! high--e--oh!"

It was sung very boisterouly, and with a forced attempt at merriment;
but no wail of despair, no words of impassioned prayer, could have had
such a depth of woe in them as the wild notes of the chorus. As if
the poor, dumb heart, threatened,--prisoned,--took refuge in that
inarticulate sanctuary of music, and found there a language in which to
breathe its prayer to God! There was a prayer in it, which Simon could
not hear. He only heard the boys singing noisily, and was well pleased;
he was making them "keep up their spirits."

"Well, my little dear," said he, turning to Emmeline, and laying his
hand on her shoulder, "we're almost home!"

When Legree scolded and stormed, Emmeline was terrified; but when he
laid his hand on her, and spoke as he now did, she felt as if she had
rather he would strike her. The expression of his e