“O, stranger! that’s rediculous, altogether,” said the man.

“Fact!” said Haley, with a decisive nod of his head.

“I’ll give thirty for him,” said the stranger, “but not a cent more.”

“Now, I’ll tell ye what I will do,” said Haley, spitting again, with renewed decision.  “I’ll split the difference, and say forty-five; and that’s the most I will do.”

“Well, agreed!” said the man, after an interval.

“Done!” said Haley.  “Where do you land?”

“At Louisville,” said the man.

“Louisville,” said Haley.  “Very fair, we get there about dusk.  Chap will be asleep,—­all fair,—­get him off quietly, and no screaming,—­happens beautiful,—­I like to do everything quietly,—­I hates all kind of agitation and fluster.”  And so, after a transfer of certain bills had passed from the man’s pocket-book to the trader’s, he resumed his cigar.

It was a bright, tranquil evening when the boat stopped at the wharf at Louisville.  The woman had been sitting with her baby in her arms, now wrapped in a heavy sleep.  When she heard the name of the place called out, she hastily laid the child down in a little cradle formed by the hollow among the boxes, first carefully spreading under it her cloak; and then she sprung to the side of the boat, in hopes that, among the various hotel-waiters who thronged the wharf, she might see her husband.  In this hope, she pressed forward to the front rails, and, stretching far over them, strained her eyes intently on the moving heads on the shore, and the crowd pressed in between her and the child.

“Now’s your time,” said Haley, taking the sleeping child up, and handing him to the stranger.  “Don’t wake him up, and set him to crying, now; it would make a devil of a fuss with the gal.”  The man took the bundle carefully, and was soon lost in the crowd that went up the wharf.

When the boat, creaking, and groaning, and puffing, had loosed from the wharf, and was beginning slowly to strain herself along, the woman returned to her old seat.  The trader was sitting there,—­the child was gone!

“Why, why,—­where?” she began, in bewildered surprise.

“Lucy,” said the trader, “your child’s gone; you may as well know it first as last.  You see, I know’d you couldn’t take him down south; and I got a chance to sell him to a first-rate family, that’ll raise him better than you can.”

The trader had arrived at that stage of Christian and political perfection which has been recommended by some preachers and politicians of the north, lately, in which he had completely overcome every humane weakness and prejudice.  His heart was exactly where yours, sir, and mine could be brought, with proper effort and cultivation.  The wild look of anguish and utter despair that the woman cast on him might have disturbed one less practised; but he was used to it.  He had seen that same look hundreds of times.  You can get used to such things, too, my friend; and