"What do you want now, gal?" asked Desmit.

"Yer a'n't a gwine ter take sech a present ez dis from a pore cullud
gal an' not so much ez giv' her someting ter remember hit by, is
yer?" she asked with arch persistency.

"There, there," said he laughing, as he gave her another dollar.
"Go on, or I shan't have a cent left."

"All right, Marse Kunnel. Thank ye, Mahs'r," she said, as she walked
off in triumph.

"Oh, hold on," said Desmit; "how old is it, Lorency?"

"Jes' sebben weeks ole dis bressed day, Mahs'r," said the proud
mother as she vanished into the kitchen to boast of her good-fortune
in getting two silver dollars out of Marse Desmit instead of the one
customarily given by him on such occasions. And so the record
was made up in the brass-clasped book of Colonel Potestatem Desmit,
the only baptismal register of the colored man who twenty-six
years afterward was wondering at the names which were seeking him
against his will.

_697--Nimbus--of Lorency--Male--April 24th, 1840--Sound--Knapp-of-Reeds._

It was a queer baptismal entry, but a slave needed no more--indeed
did not need that. It was not given for his sake, but only for the
convenience of his godfather should the chattel ever seek to run
away, or should it become desirable to exchange him for some other