er tears almost choked the words.

He had one hope left. He would ask Miss Ophelia to speak to Mrs. St.
Clare for him.

'Mas'r St. Clare promised me my freedom, Miss Feely,' he said. 'He told
me that he had begun to take it out for me. And now, perhaps, if you
would be good enough to speak about it to missis, she would feel like
going on with it. Seeing it was Mas'r St. Clare's wish, she might.'

'I'll speak for you, Tom, and do my best,' said Miss Ophelia. 'I haven't
much hope, but I will try.'

So Miss Ophelia asked Mrs. St. Clare to set Tom free.

'Indeed, I shall do no such thing,' she replied. 'Tom is worth more than
any of the other slaves. I couldn't afford to lose so much money.
Besides, what does he want with his freedom? He is a great deal better
off as he is.'

'But he does want it very much,' replied Miss Ophelia. 'And his master
promised it to him.'

'I dare say he does want it,' replied Mrs. St. Clare. 'They all want it.
Just because they are a discontented set, always wanting what they
haven't got.'

'But Tom is so good and gentle, and such a splendid worker. If you sell
him there is the chance of his getting a bad master.'

'Oh, I have no fear about that. Most masters are good, in spite of all
the talk people make about it,' replied Mrs. St. Clare.

'Well', said Miss Ophelia at last, 'I know it was one of the last wishes
of your husband that Tom should have his freedom. He promised dear
little Eva that he should have it. I think you ought to do it.'

Then Mrs. St. Clare began to cry, and say every one was unkind to her,
and Miss Ophelia saw it was no use saying anything more. There was only
one other thing she could do. She wrote to Mrs. Shelby, telling her that
poor Uncle Tom was going to be sold again. She asked her to send money
to buy him back, as soon as possible.

The next day, Uncle Tom and the other slaves belonging to Mr. St. Clare
were sent to market to be sold.

As Uncle Tom stood in the market-place, waiting for some one to buy him,
he looked anxiously round. In the crowd of faces, he was trying to find
one kind, handsome one, like Mr. St. Clare's. But there was none.

Presently a short, broad man, with a coarse, ugly face and dirty hands,
came up to Tom. He looked him all over, pulled his mouth open and looked
at his teeth, pinched his arms, made him walk and jump, and indeed
treated him as he would a horse or cow he had wished to buy.

Tom knew from the way this man looked