"
"Have her coming," he returns, facing Blowers. "Nothing the matter
with that gal," he exclaims, touching his elbow. "It is merely one of
her flimsy fits; she hasn't quite come to maturity."
Slowly the negro leads her, weeping (Graspum says they will cry-it's
natural!) into the presence of the far-famed and much-feared Mr.
Pringle Blowers. Her hair hangs carelessly about her neck and
shoulders, the open incision of her dress discloses a neatly worked
stomacher; how sweetly glows the melancholy that broods over her
countenance! "I'll take her-I'll take her!" exclaims Blowers, in
spasmodic ecstasy.
"I know'd you would; I'll suit you to a charm," rejoins the man of
trade, laconically, as the negro steps a few feet backward, and
watches the process. "Considers it a trade," is the reply of
Blowers, as he orders his waggon to be brought to the door.
"Oh! master, master! save me-save me! and let me die in peace.
Don't, good master, don't sell me again!" Thus saying she falls on
her knees at Graspum's feet, and with hands uplifted beseeches him
to save her from the hands of a man whose very sight she loathes.
She reads the man's character in his face; she knows too well the
hellish purpose for which he buys her. Bitter, bitter, are the tears
of anguish she sheds at his feet, deep and piercing are her
bemoanings. Again her soft, sorrowing eyes wander in prayer to
heaven: as Graspum is a husband, a brother, and a father,--whose
children are yet in the world's travel of uncertainty, she beseeches
him to save her from that man.
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