rful beauty, and uncommon courage, seemed for a moment to shake
their purpose. The manner and language of this child were alike beyond
her years, and under other circumstances would have gained for her the
approbation of those present.

"Oh, Henry, Henry!" exclaimed Isabella, wringing her hands.

"You need not call on him, hussy; you will never see him again," said
Mrs. Miller.

"What! is he dead?" inquired the heart-stricken woman.

It was then that she forgot her own situation, thinking only of the man
she loved. Never having been called to endure any kind of abusive
treatment, Isabella was not fitted to sustain herself against the
brutality of Mrs. Miller, much less the combined ferociousness of the
old woman and the overseer too. Suffice it to say, that instead of
whipping Isabella, Mrs. Miller transferred her to the negro-speculator,
who took her immediately to his slave-pen. The unfeeling old woman
would not permit Isabella to take more than a single change of her
clothing, remarking to Jennings,--

"I sold you the wench, you know,--not her clothes."

The injured, friendless, and unprotected Isabella fainted as she saw
her child struggling to release herself from the arms of old Mrs.
Miller, and as the wretch boxed the poor child's ears.

After leaving directions as to how Isabella's furniture and other
effects should be disposed of, Mrs. Miller took Clotelle 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 sciss