was only this morning I learned that Celeste--you remember Celeste, don't
you?--I cannot recall her last name."

"No, dear, I really can't say that I do remember whom you refer to."

"I can bring her to your recollection, I think," continued she. "One
afternoon last fall we were riding together on the Augusta-road, when you
stopped to admire a very neat cottage, before the door of which two pretty
children were playing."

"Oh, yes, I remember something about it--I admired the children so
excessively that you became quite jealous."

"I don't remember that part of it," she continued. "But let me tell you my
story. Last week the father of the children started for Washington; the
cars ran off the track, and were precipitated down a high embankment, and
he and some others were killed. Since his death it has been discovered that
all his property was heavily mortgaged to old MacTurk, the worst man in the
whole of Savannah; and he has taken possession of the place, and thrown her
and the children into the slave-pen, from which they will be sold to the
highest bidder at a sheriff's sale. Who can say that a similar fate may
never be mine? These things press upon my spirit, and make me so gloomy and
melancholy at times, that I wish it were possible to shun even myself.
Lately, more than ever, have I felt disposed to beg you to break up here,
and move off to some foreign country where there is no such thing as
slavery. I have often thought how delightful it would be for us all to be
living in that beautiful Italy you have so often described to me--or in
France either. You said you liked both those places--why not live in one of
them?"