"For two years after my marriage my husband and I lived on the
plantation, he managing the estate until he was called to Washington on
business, and, in returning, the train was thrown down an embankment,
and he was among the killed.

"Soon after that my baby was born, and before he was six months old my
mistress died suddenly, when it was found that the estate was insolvent,
and everything must be sold to pay the debts; and I and my baby, with
the other goods and chattels, were put up for sale. Mr. Martin, the
speculator, bought me, thinking I would bring a fancy price; but my
heart was broken, and I grieved until my health gave way, so that nobody
ever wanted me, until your kind-hearted master bought me to give me a
home to die in. But oh, Uncle Bob," she continued, bursting into tears,
"to think my boy, my baby, must be a slave! His father's relatives are
poor. He had only a widowed mother and two sisters. They are not able to
buy my child, and he must be raised in ignorance, to do another's
bidding all his life, my poor little baby! His dear father hated
slavery, and it seems so hard that his son must be a slave!"

"Now don't yer take on like dat, er makin' uv yerse'f sick," said Uncle
Bob; "I know wat I gwine do; my min' hit's made up; hit's true, I'm
brack, but den my min' hit's made up. Now you go on back ter de house,
outn dis damp a'r, an' tuck cyar er yerse'f, an' don't yer be er
frettin', nuther, caze my marster, he's de bes' man dey is; an' den,
'sides dat, my min' hit's made up. Hyear, honey," addressing the child,
"take deze hyear wite-oak splits an' go'n make yer er baskit 'long o'
yer ma."

[Illustration: "MY MIN' HIT'S MADE UP."]