d her weeping in her old nurse's arms. 'O!
grandpa,' said she, as I inquired the cause of her distress, 'I have been
reading "The Little Pin-headers."' I wept over it too, for it was true. No,
sir; if I must see slavery, let me see it in its best form, as it exists in
our Southern country."

"You are right, sir, I fear," said the Englishman.

"Well," said Mr. Perkins, "I am glad I am not a slaveholder, for one
reason; I am sure I should never get to heaven. I should be knocking brains
out from morning till night, that is if there are brains under all that
mass of wool. Why, they are so slow, and inactive--I should be stumbling
over them all the time; though from the specimens I have seen in your
house, sir, I should say they made most agreeable servants."

"My servants are very faithful," said Mr. Weston, "they have had great
pains taken with them. I rarely have any complaints from the overseer."

"Your overseers,--that is the worst feature in slavery," said Mr. Perkins.

"Why, sir," said Mr. Chapman, ready for another argument, "you have your
superintendents at the North--and they can knock their people down whenever
they see fit."

"I beg your pardon, sir," said Mr. Perkins. "I had forgotten that."

"Stay a little while with us," said Mr. Chapman, as Mr. Weston rose to lead
the way to the drawing-room. "You will not find us so bad as you think. We
may roast a negro now and then, when we have a barbecue, but that will be
our way of showing you hospitality. You must remember we are only 'poor
heathenish Southerners' according to the best received opinions of some who
live with you in New England."

* * * * *

"Alice," said Mrs. Weston, at a late hour in the evening, when the last of
the guests were taking their departure, "Walter would like to see you in
the library; but, my love, I wish you would spare yourself and him the
useless pain of parting."

"I must see him, dear mother, do not refuse me; it is for the last
time--pray, let me go."

"If you choose," and Alice glided away as her mother was interrupted by the
leave-taking of some of their visitors. The forms, the courtesies of life
had no claims upon her now--she was enduring her first sorrow; the
foundation of youth's slight fabric of happiness was yielding beneath her
touch. The dread "nevermore," that Edgar Poe could not drive from his heart
and sight, was oppressing her. She sought him before whom her young heart
had