“There must be a mistake here. It is true that my wife was the adopted daughter of the late Mr. George Savage, but there is not a drop of negro blood in her veins; and I doubt, sir, if you have ever seen her.”
“Well, sir,” said Walker, “jest bring her in the room, and I guess she’ll know me.”
Feeling confident that the bill of sale had no reference to his wife, Mr. Phelps rang the bell, and told the boy that answered it to ask his mistress to come in. A moment or two later, and the lady entered the room.
“My dear,” said Mr. Phelps, “are you acquainted with either of these gentlemen?”
The lady looked, hesitated, and replied, “I think not.”
Then Walker arose, stepped towards the window, where he could be seen to better advantage, and said, “Why, Lola, have you forgotten me, it’s only about ten years since I brought you from ‘Poplar Farm,’ and lent you to Mr. Savage. Ha, ha, ha!”
This coarse laugh of the rough, uneducated negro-trader had not ceased, when Lola gave a heart-rending shriek, and fell fainting upon the floor.
“I thought she’d know me when I jogged her memory,” said Walker, as he re-seated himself.
Mr. Phelps sprang to his wife, and lifted her from the floor, and placed her upon the sofa.
“Throw a little of Adam’s ale in her face, and that’ll bring her to. I’ve seen ’em faint afore; but they allers come to,” said the trader.