tress died suddenly, when it was found that the estate was insolvent,
and everything must be sold to pay the debts; and I and my baby, with
the other goods and chattels, were put up for sale. Mr. Martin, the
speculator, bought me, thinking I would bring a fancy price; but my
heart was broken, and I grieved until my health gave way, so that nobody
ever wanted me, until your kind-hearted master bought me to give me a
home to die in. But oh, Uncle Bob," she continued, bursting into tears,
"to think my boy, my baby, must be a slave! His father's relatives are
poor. He had only a widowed mother and two sisters. They are not able to
buy my child, and he must be raised in ignorance, to do another's
bidding all his life, my poor little baby! His dear father hated
slavery, and it seems so hard that his son must be a slave!"

"Now don't yer take on like dat, er makin' uv yerse'f sick," said Uncle
Bob; "I know wat I gwine do; my min' hit's made up; hit's true, I'm
brack, but den my min' hit's made up. Now you go on back ter de house,
outn dis damp a'r, an' tuck cyar er yerse'f, an' don't yer be er
frettin', nuther, caze my marster, he's de bes' man dey is; an' den,
'sides dat, my min' hit's made up. Hyear, honey," addressing the child,
"take deze hyear wite-oak splits an' go'n make yer er baskit 'long o'
yer ma."

[Illustration: "MY MIN' HIT'S MADE UP."]

Ann and her baby returned to the house, but Uncle Snake-bit Bob, long
after the sun went down, still sat on his little bench in front of his
shop, his elbows on his knees, and his face buried in his hands; and
when it grew quite dark he rose, and put away his splits and his
baskets, saying to himself,

"Well, I know wat I'm gwine do; my min', hit's made up."

CHAPTER VIII.

UNCLE BOB'S PROPOSITION.

The night after Ann's interview with Uncle Bob, Major Waldron was
sitting in his library overlooking some papers, when some one knocked at
the door, and, in response to his hearty "Come in," Uncle Snake-bit Bob
entered.

"Ebenin' ter yer, marster," said the old man, scraping his foot and
bowing his head.

"How are you, Uncle Bob?" responded his master.

"I'm jes po'ly, thank God," replied Uncle Bob, in the answer invariably
given by Southern slaves to the query "How are you?" No matter if they
were fat as seals, and had never had a day's sickness in their lives,
the answer was always the same--"I'm po'ly, thank God."

"Well, Uncle Bob, what is it now?" asked Majo