One day, as we all sat in the shed-room, engaged at our various occupations, we were roused by a noise of violent weeping, and something like a rude scuffle just without the door, when suddenly Atkins entered, dragging after him, with his hand close about his throat, a poor negro man, aged and worn, with a head white as cotton.
"Oh, please, Masser, jist let me go back, an' tell de ole 'ooman farewell, an' I won't ax for any more."
"No, you old rascal, you wants to run away. If you say another word about the old voman, I'll beat the life out of you."
"Oh lor', oh lor', de poor ole 'ooman an' de boys; oh my ole heart will bust!" and, sobbing like a child, the old man sank down upon the floor, in the most abandoned grief.
"Here, boys, some of you git the fiddle and play, an' I warrant that old fool will be dancin' in a minnit," said Atkins in his unfeeling way.
Of course this speech met with the most signal applause from "de boys" addressed.
I watched the expression of Charles' face. It was frightful. He sat in one corner, as usual, with an open book in his hand. From it he raised his eyes, and, whilst the scene between Atkins and the old negro was going on, they flashed with an expression that I could not fathom. His brows knit, and his lip curled, yet he spoke no word.
When Atkins withdrew, the old man lay there, still weeping and sobbing piteously. I went up to him, kindly saying,
"What is the matter, old uncle?"
The sound of a kind voice aroused him, and looking up through his streaming tears, he said,