Mary Thacher Higginson, Thomas Wentworth Higginson: the story of his life

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To avert this, I hoped earnestly that my good-natured friend would buy one or more of the poor things. “For,” said he to me, “I mean to bring her up well. She'll be a pet for the children—black or white it will make no difference—and while I live I shan't sell her—that is while it is possible to help it.” (A formidable reservation, considering the condition of most Southern estates.)

The little pink frocks were ordered to stand off, and a bargain was finally struck for Martha, quite to Mr. Thompson's chagrin, who evidently hoped to sell Sue, and would, no doubt, have done so, but for her ignorance “how to treat gentlemen.”

“Girl is sound, I suppose?” carelessly inquired the purchaser.

“Wind and limb,” responded the trader. “But strip her naked and examine every inch of her, if you wish,” he quickly added; “I never have any disguises with my customers.”

So ended the bargain, and I presently took my leave. I had one last glance at little Sue. It is not long since I set foot on the floating wreck of an unknown vessel at sea, and then left it drifting away in the darkness alone. But it was sadder to me to think of that little wreck of babyhood drifting off alone into the ocean of Southern crime and despair.

St. Louis must unquestionably be a very religious place, however, for in returning to my hotel I passed a church with inscriptions in four different languages. There was Jehovah in Hebrew, “Deo Uno et Trino,” “In honorem S. Ludovici.” Finally in English and