She has watched Marston's moral delinquencies with
suspicion; but she loves the children none the less. And with honest
negro nature she runs to them, clasps them to her bosom, fondles
them, and kisses them like a fond mother. The happy associations of
the past, contrasted with their present unhappy condition, unbind
the fountain of her solicitude,--she pours it upon them, warm and
fervent. "Gwine t' sell ye, too! Mas'r, poor old Mas'r, would'nt
sell ye, no how! that he don't. But poor old Boss hab 'e trouble
now, God bless 'em," she says, again pressing Annette to her bosom,
nearer and nearer, with fondest, simplest, holiest affection.
Looking intently in the child's face, she laughs with the bounding
joy of her soul; then she smooths its hair with her brawny black
hands: they contrast strangely with the pure carnatic of the child's
cheek.
"Lor! good Lor, Mas'r Buckra," aunt Rachel exclaims, "if eber de
Lor' smote 'e vengence on yeh, 't'll be fo' sellin' de likes o'
dese. Old Mas'r tinks much on 'em, fo' true. Gwine t' sell dem what
Mas'r be so fond on? Hard tellin' what Buckra don't sell win i'
makes money on him. Neber mind, children; de Lor' aint so unsartin
as white man. He,--da'h good Mas'r yonder in the clouds,--save ye yet;
he'll make white man gin ye back when de day o' judgment come." Aunt
Rachel has an instinctive knowledge of the errors, accidents, and
delays which have brought about this sad event,--she becomes absorbed
in their cares, as she loses sight of her own trouble.
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