As we were leaving the lying-in hospital, we met at the door a young negro with a basket in his hand. I walked on, not conceiving there was any thing remarkable about him, while Mr. Buchanan stopped to make some inquiries: on rejoining me, he said,

“That good creature has interested us all; he is not one of my negroes, he belongs to the neighbouring estate of Perseverance, but his wife belonged to us. She was the mother of the twins you saw, and died in labour.”

“In what respects,” said I, “is he interesting? I did not, however, particularly observe him; he only momentarily attracted my attention, as being of a better figure than we commonly meet with.”

“He is not only so,” replied my cousin, “but, though black, is a gentleman of Nature's making. It is, however, by the loss of his wife—she was worth to me a hundred pounds —and by the regular attention he pays to his children, that he has interested all our sympathies. His master, Mr. Logan, allows him to visit them every day, so much has he been pleased with his feeling and conduct. But I must tell you the love-story of poor Scipio.

“He is indeed, as you casually noticed, a very handsome negro, and really of a princely mind.