She lingers at the grating, waiting
M'Carstrow's return. Time seems to linger, until her feelings are
nearly overwhelmed in suspense. Again, there is a mystery in the
mission of the stranger; she almost doubts his sincerity. It may be
one of those plots, so often laid by slave-traders, to separate her
from her child,--perhaps to run her where all hope of regaining
freedom will be for ever lost. One after another did these things
recur to her mind, only to make the burden of her troubles more
painful.
Her child has eaten its crust, fallen into a deep sleep, and, its
little hands resting clasped on its bosom, lies calmly upon the
coarse blanket. She gazes upon it, as a mother only can gaze. There
is beauty in that sweet face; it is not valued for its loveliness,
its tenderness, its purity. How cursed that it is to be the prime
object of her disgrace! Thus contemplating, M'Carstrow appears at
the outer gate, is admitted into the prison, reaches the inner
grating, is received by the warden, who smiles generously. "I'm as
glad as anything! Hope you had a good time with his honour, Mr.
Cur?" he says, holding the big key in his hand, and leading the way
into the office. He takes his seat at a table, commences preparing
the big book. "Here is the entry," he says, with a smile of
satisfaction. "We'll soon straighten the thing now." Puts out his
hand for the order which M'Carstrow has been holding. "That's just
the little thing," he says, reading it word by word carefully, and
concluding with the remark that he has had a deal of trouble with
it.
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