"Mas'r, Bob don' like to say all he feels," meekly muttered the old
man.
"There is the spot on which we lay the most unholy blot; and yet, it
recoils upon us when we least think. Unfortunate wretches bear them
unto us; yet we dare not make them our own; we blast their lives for
selfish ends, yield them to others, shield ourselves by a misnomer
called right! We sell the most interesting beings for a
price,--beings that should be nearest and dearest to our hearts."
The old slave's eyes glistened with excitement; he looked on
astonished, as if some extraordinary scene had surprised him. As his
agitation subsided, he continued, "Mas'r, I bin watch 'im dis long
time. Reckon how nobody wouldn't take 'em fo'h nobody else's-fo'h
true! Dar ain't no spozin' bout 'em, 'e so right smart twarn't no
use to guise 'em: da'h just like old Boss. Mas'r, nigger watch dem
tings mighty close; more close den Buckra, cos' Buckra tink 'e all
right when nigger tink 'e all wrong."
Marston is not quite content with this: he must needs put another
question to the old man. "You are sure there can be no mistaking
them for mine?" he rejoins, fixing his eyes upon the children with
an almost death-like stare, as Daddy leads them out of the room. The
door closes after them, he paces the room for a time, seats himself
in his chair again, and is soon absorbed in contemplation. "I must
do something for them-I must snatch them from the jaws of danger.
They are full of interest-they are mine; there is not a drop of
negro blood in their veins, and yet the world asks who are their
mothers, what is their history? Ah! yes; in that history lies the
canker that has eaten out the living springs of many lives.
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