"Sell ye, child-sell ye?" she concludes, shaking her head.
"And what will they do with me and Nicholas when they get us sold?"
continues the child, turning to Nicholas and taking him by the arm.
"Don' kno': perhaps save ye fo'h sinnin' agin de Lor'," is the old
slave's quick reply. She shakes her head doubtingly, and bursts into
tears, as she takes Annette in her arms, presses her to her bosom,
kisses and kisses her pure cheek. How heavenly is the affection of
that old slave--how it rebukes our Christian mockery!
"Will they sell us where we can't see mother, auntie? I do want to
see mother so," says the child, looking up in the old slave's face.
There seemed something too pure, too holy, in the child's
simplicity, as it prattled about its mother, for such purposes as it
is about to be consigned to. "They do not sell white folks, auntie,
do they? My face is as white as anybody's; and Nicholas's aint
black. I do want to see mother so! when will she come back and take
care of me, auntie?"
"Lor', child," interrupts the old negro, suppressing her emotions,
"no use to ax dem questions ven ye gwine t' market. Buckra right
smart at makin' nigger what bring cash."
The child expresses a wish that auntie would take her back to the
old plantation, where master, as mother used to call him, wouldn't
let them sell her away off. And she shakes her head with an air of
unconscious pertness; tells the old negro not to cry for her.
The cryer's bell sounds forth its muddling peals to summon the
customers; a grotesque mixture of men close round the stand.
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