"There," said Jennings, as a beautiful young woman shrunk back with modesty.
"There, sir, is the very gal that was made for you. If she had been made
to your order, she could not have suited you better."
"Indeed, sir, is not that young woman white?" inquired the parson.
"Oh, no, sir; she is no whiter than you see!"
"But is she a slave?" asked the preacher.
"Yes," said the trader, "I bought her in Richmond, and she comes
from an excellent family. She was raised by Squire Miller, and her
mistress was one of the most pious ladies in that city, I may say;
she was the salt of the earth, as the ministers say."
"But she resembles in some respect Agnes, the woman I bought from you,"
said Mr. Wilson. As he said the name of Agnes, the young woman started
as if she had been struck. Her pulse seemed to quicken, but her face
alternately flushed and turned pale, and tears trembled upon her eyelids.
It was a name she had heard her mother mention, and it brought to her
memory those days,--those happy days, when she was so loved and caressed.
This young woman was Clotelle, the granddaughter of Agnes.
Pages:
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124