his own hands. She begged that he would
take some refreshment before leaving Glenoak,
and remain there as long as he pleased.
The weather was not very inviting; but if
he liked to ride or walk in the plantation,
Mr. Spinks, the overseer, would show him
over it.

Mr. D'Oiley thanked Miss Cartwright
for her kind condescension to "a poor over-
worked son of the busy city, miss." He
was not much of an equestrian, and Mr.
Cartwright's steeds had the reputation
of being dangerous to bad riders, like
himself. But there was nothing he liked
so much as a good country walk on a fine
frosty day; and, with Miss Cartwright's
kind permission, he would gladly take a
stroll about these beautiful premises before
returning to town.

The first thing that roused Mr. D'Oiley's
curiosity, when he commenced his stroll
about the beautiful premises, was the shrieking
of a miserable old negro who was wailing
under the lash.

"What is the man's fault?" he inquired
of the overseer who was standing
by, to see that punishment was thoroughly
inflicted.

"Man, you call him, do you?"
responded Mr. Spinks, "I call him, sir, a
darned pig-headed brute. We can't, none
of us, get him to take that load of ice into
the ice-house, and it's spoiling."

"Well, but," said Mr. D'Oiley, "the
load seems a heavy one, and he don't look
good for much."

"Good for much? He ain't good for
anything."

"Why won't you take the ice, Sambo?"
asked the watchmaker.

"I ain't Sambo," said the negro,
sullenly and cowering, "I'm Ned, old Uncle
Ned."

"Well, why won't you do as you're told,
Uncle Ned?"

"'Cause poor old Ned he no dare, massa.
Old Ned he no like Bogie in de ice-house.
Bogie, he worse nor massa by night, and
massa he worse nor Bogie by day. Poor
Uncle Ned, he berry bad time of it."

Mr. D'Oiley had another illumination.

"Well now, you look here, Mr. Spinks.
Reckon I'd like to buy that nigger o' you,
sir. He ain't worth much, you know."

"Well, sir, he ain't bright. That's a
fact. But there's a deal o' field work in
him yet. And he was raised on the
plantation, you see, and knows it well."

"Ah, indeed!" said the watchmaker, as
though very much surprised to hear it.

"Knows it well, does he? Say a hundred
dollars for him, Mr. Spinks?"

"Not two hundred, sir."

"Name your figure, sir."

"Not less than a thousand, Mr. D'Oiley.
I assure you, sir, Mr. Cartwright wouldn't
hear of it. He's uncommon fond of this
nigger. He's quite a partiality for this
nigger, has Mr. Cartwright, sir."

"Did you say a thousand, Mr. Spinks?"

"I did, sir."

"Split the difference, Mr. Spinks. Make
it five hundred, sir."

"Done, sir."

"Done with you, sir," returned the
watchmaker; "and if you'll take my cheque
for it, I'll carry him back in my buggy.
Nothing like settling things at once."

"Take your note of hand for a million,
sir," responded the overseer, delighted to
have sold a broken-down nigger so
advantageously, at double the market price.

That very night the owner of Glenoak
returned unexpectedly to his ancestral
mansion. His first act was to send for Mr.
Spinks. " I want to see Uncle Ned, Mr.
Spinks. Send the brute up immediately."

"Uncle Ned? Why, Mr. Cartwright,
I've just sold him, and very advantageously.
He's not been worth his keep for the last
three years."

Words cannot describe the frantic
paroxysm of wrath into which Mr.
Cartwright was thrown by this announcement.

"But, indeed, Mr. Cartwright," expostulated
the overseer, "I thought that, in
your interest, when I found Mr. D'Oiley
willing to give five hundred——"

"You sold him to D'Oiley?"

"Yes, sir, this afternoon."

"You villain!" howled Cartwright,
springing at the throat of the overseer.
But his humour suddenly changed. "Never
mind, now," he growled, flinging the
overseer against the wall, "the mischief's
done now. Order round the waggon
and team this moment, and bring me all
the money you have in the house, and then
get out of my sight."

Mr. Cartwright strode up-stairs, and
entered his daughter's room. " Virgy," he
said, with a dim eye and a husky voice,
"I'm going away—I'm going at once, and
I'm going far, far, far. If you stay at
Glenoak, Virgy, may-be we shan't meet
again; anyhow not for a long, long while.
If you'll come with me we'll never part,
my girl; but the way's a long one, and the
future's dark as night, and there's danger
behind us. What will you do, Virgy?"