into her
carriage and drove home. There was not even color enough about the child
to make it appear that a single drop of African blood flowed through its
blue veins.

Considerable sensation was created in the kitchen among the servants
when the carriage drove up, and Clotelle entered the house.

"Jes' like Massa Henry fur all de worl'," said Dinah, as she caught a
glimpse of the child through the window.

"Wondah whose brat dat ar' dat missis bringin' home wid her?" said Jane,
as she put the ice in the pitchers for dinner. "I warrant it's some poor
white nigger somebody bin givin' her."

The child was white. What should be done to make it look like other
negroes, was the question which Mrs. Miller asked herself. The
callous-hearted old woman bit her nether lip, as she viewed that child,
standing before her, with her long, dark ringlets clustering over her
alabaster brow and neck.

"Take this little nigger and cut her hair close to her head," said the
mistress to Jane, as the latter answered the bell.

Clotelle screamed, as she felt the scissors grating over her head, and
saw those curls that her mother thought so much of falling upon the
floor.

A roar of laughter burst from the servants, as Jane led the child
through the kitchen, with the hair cut so short that the naked scalp
could be plainly seen.

"'Gins to look like nigger, now," said Dinah, with her mouth upon a
grin.

The mistress smiled, as the shorn child reentered the room; but there
was something more needed. The child was white, and that was a great
objection. However, she hit upon a plan to remedy this which seemed
feasible. The day was excessively warm. Not a single cloud floated over
the blue vault of heaven; not a breath of wind seemed moving, and
the earth was parched by the broiling sun. Even the bees had stopped
humming, and the butterflies had hid themselves under the broad leaves
of the burdock. Without a morsel of dinner, the poor child was put in
the garden, and set to weeding it, her arms, neck, and head completely
bare. Unaccustomed to toil, Clotelle wept as she exerted herself in
pulling up the weeds. Old Dinah, the cook, was a unfeeling as her
mistress, and she was pleased to see the child made to work in the hot
sun.

"Dat white nigger'll soon be brack enuff if missis keeps her workin' out
dar," she said, as she wiped the perspiration from her sooty brow.

Dinah was the mother of thirteen children, all of whom bad been
taken