"Please, sir, will you tell me if these are the slaves?" said Hattie.
He looked round, while he kept his arm and the top of his cane
describing large arcs of a circle.
"They are our colored people, Miss," said he, exchanging a smile with
your Uncle and me.
"Well, sir," said Hattie, more earnestly than before, "are they
slaves?"
He politely nodded assent, but was apparently interested by something
which caught his eye. He then took out a snuff-box, and, looking round
about him while opening it, said,--
"Some of them dress too much, Miss,--too much, altogether."
"Kid gloves of all colors," said Hattie, soliloquizing. "Red morocco
Bibles and hymn-books. What a white cloud of a turban! Part of the
choir, I take it,--those, with their singing-books. Elegant spruce young
fellow, isn't he, Aunt? with the violoncello. Venerable old couple,
there! over eighty, both of them. Well," continued Hattie, "I will give
up, if these are the slaves."
"Don't make up your mind too suddenly," said your Uncle; "you will see
other things."
"Uncle," said she, "what I have seen here in fifteen minutes shows me
that at least one half of that which I have learned at the North about
the slaves is false.
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