ed her intelligence and good character. Her
long and faithful service in the family was also well known, and the
intention of her mistress to leave her free. When the day of sale came, she
took her place among the chattels, and at the first call she sprang upon
the auction-block. Many voices called out, "Shame! Shame! Who is going to
sell _you_, aunt Marthy? Don't stand there! That is no place for _you_."
Without saying a word, she quietly awaited her fate. No one bid for her. At
last, a feeble voice said, "Fifty dollars." It came from a maiden lady,
seventy years old, the sister of my grandmother's deceased mistress. She
had lived forty years under the same roof with my grandmother; she knew how
faithfully she had served her owners, and how cruelly she had been
defrauded of her rights; and she resolved to protect her. The auctioneer
waited for a higher bid; but her wishes were respected; no one bid above
her. She could neither read nor write; and when the bill of sale was made
out, she signed it with a cross. But what consequence was that, when she
had a big heart overflowing with human kindness? She gave the old servant
her freedom.

At that time, my grandmother was just fifty years old. Laborious years had
passed since then; and now my brother and I were slaves to the man who had
defrauded her of her money, and tried to defraud her of her freedom. One of
my mother's sisters, called Aunt Nancy, was also a slave in his family. She
was a kind, good aunt to me; and supplied the place of both housekeeper and
waiting maid to her mistress. She was, in fact, at the beginning and end of
every thing.

Mrs. Flint, like many southern women, was totally deficient in energy. She
had not strength to superintend her household affairs; but her nerves were
so strong, that she could sit in her easy chair and see a woman whipped,
till the blood trickled from every stroke of the lash. She was a member of
the church; but partaking of the Lord's supper did not seem to put her in a
Christian frame of mind. If dinner was not served at the exact time on that
particular Sunday, she would station herself in the kitchen, and wait till
it was dished, and then spit in all the kettles and pans that had been used
for cooking. She did this to prevent the cook and her children from eking
out their meagre fare with the remains of the gravy and other scrapings.
The slaves could get nothing to eat except what she chose to give them.
Provisions were weigh