"And who is this poor girl?" enquires Mrs. Rosebrook, stepping
softly forward, and taking her by the hand.
"Marston's once; some Indian in her, they say. She's right fair
looks when she's herself. Marston's in trouble now, and the cholera
has made sad havoc of his niggers," Mr. Praiseworthy replies,
placing a chair, and motioning his hand for the lady to be seated.
The lady seats herself beside the girl,--takes her hand.
"Yes, missus; God bless good missus. Ye don't know me now," mutters
the poor girl, raising her wild glassy eyes, as she parts the long
black hair from her forehead: "you don't know me; I'm changed so!"
"My child, who has made you this wretch?" says the good lady,
pressing her tawny hand.
My child!" she exclaims, with emphasis: "My child Nicholas,--my
child! Missus, save Nicholas; he is my child. Oh! do save him!" and,
as if terrified, she grasps tighter the lady's hand, while her
emotions swell into a frantic outburst of grief. "Nicholas, my
child!" she shrieks.
"She will come to, soon: it's only one of her strange fits of
aberration. Sometimes I fling cold water over her; and, if it's very
cold, she soon comes to," Mr. Praiseworthy remarks, as he stands
unmoved, probably contemplating the goodness of a forgiving God.
What magic simplicity lies concealed in his nature; and yet it is
his trade, sanctioned by the law of a generous state. Let us bless
the land that has given us power to discover the depths to which
human nature can reduce itself, and what man can make himself when
human flesh and blood become mere things of traffic.
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