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Sounds of revelry and mirth echoed through the apartment; bright forms flitted by the open windows; and woman's low, musical laugh told of happy hearts within.
Away from this crowded scene, near the bank of the river, stood Clara, the daughter of Mr. Hayes. But why is she not with the other daughter of his, the admired of all? Her features, you see, are as perfect, her eyes as intelligent, her form as graceful, as that other sister's. We soon learn—she is a Slave. That settles all the mystery.
Another form approaches her—a tall youth; and as he approaches, he whispers to her, "My sister!" She looked up with a smile, but soon an expression of anxiety passed over her face, for she saw a stain of blood upon his breast, and on his brow the traces of recent passion. His eye even then flashed with fire.
"Charles, what is the matter?"
"Matter! Are we not Slaves—mere cyphers—who dare not call our lives, our souls our own? Nothing belongs to us but thought and feeling. I will yet escape, and tell my wrongs to those who will hear and sympathise. Hush! Do not tell me God is just. I never felt his justice. What I am, they have made me; and if I sink down to deep despair, I sink under the pressure of their tyranny. All that I have learned, all that raises
