“And you’ll bring Nicholas back-won’t you?” she enquires, grasping the messenger more firmly by the hand.

“Sartin! no mistake ’bout dat, little ’uman.”  At this she takes Nicholas by the hand, and retires to their little room in the cabin.  Here, like one of older years, she washes him, and dresses him, and fusses over him.

He is merely a child for sale; so she combs his little locks, puts on his new osnaburgs, arranges his nice white collar about his neck, and makes him look so prim.  And then she ties a piece of black ribbon about his neck, giving him the bright appearance of a school-boy on examination-day.  The little girl’s feelings seem as much elated as would be a mother’s at the prospect of her child gaining a medal of distinction.

“Now, Nicholas!” she whispers, with touching simplicity, as she views him from head to foot with a smile of exultation on her face, “your mother never dressed you so neat.  But I like you more and more, Nicholas, because both our mothers are gone; and maybe we shall never see ’um again.”  And she kisses him fondly,—­tells him not to stay long,—­to tell her all he has seen and heard about mother, when he returns.

“I don’t know, ’Nette, but ’pears to me we ain’t like other children-they don’t have to be sold so often; and I don’t seem to have any father.”

“Neither do I; but Mrs. Tuttlewell says I mustn’t mind that, because there’s thousands just like us.  And then she says we ain’t the same kind o’ white folks that she is; she says we are white, but niggers for all that.  I don’t know how it is!  I’m not like black folks, because I’m just as white as any white folks,” she rejoins, placing her little arms round his neck and smoothing his hair with her left hand.

“I’ll grow up, one o’ these days.”

“And so will I,” she speaks, boldly.

“And I’m goin’ to know where my mother’s gone, and why I ain’t as good as other folks’ white children,” he rejoins sullenly, shaking his head, and muttering away to himself.  It is quite evident that the many singular stages through which he is passing, serve only to increase the stubborness of his nature.  The only black distinguishable in his features are his eyes and hair; and, as he looks in the glass to confirm what he has said, Annette takes him by the hand, tells him he must not mind, now; that if he is good he shall see Franconia,—­and mother, too, one of these days.  He must not be pettish, she remarks, holding him by the hand like a sister whose heart glows with hope for a brother’s welfare.  She gives him in charge of the messenger, saying, “Good by!” as she imprints a kiss on his cheek, its olive hues changing into deep crimson.