"What would he do?" said the girl, looking, with breathless interest, into her face.
"What wouldn't he do, you'd better ask," said Cassy. "He's learned his trade well, among the pirates in the West Indies. You wouldn't sleep much, if I should tell you things I've seen,—things that he tells of, sometimes, for good jokes. I've heard screams here that I have n't been able to get out of my head for weeks and weeks. There's a place way out down by the quarters, where you can see a black, blasted tree, and the ground all covered with black ashes. Ask any one what was done there, and see if they will dare to tell you."
"O! what do you mean?"
"I won't tell you. I hate to think of it. And I tell you, the Lord only knows what we may see tomorrow, if that poor fellow holds out as he's begun."
"Horrid!" said Emmeline, every drop of blood receding from her cheeks. "O, Gassy, do tell me what I shall do!"
"What I've done. Do the best you can,—do what you must,—and make it up in hating and cursing."
"He wanted to make me drink some of his hateful brandy," said Emmeline; "and I hate it so—"
"You'd better drink," said Gassy. "I hated it, too; and now I can't live without it. One must have something;—things don't look so dreadful, when you take that."
"Mother used to tell me never to touch any such thing," said Emmeline.
"Mother told you!" said Cassy, with a thrilling and bitter emphasis on the word mother. "What use is it for mothers to say anything? You are all to be bought and paid for, and your souls belong to whoever gets you. That's the
