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My poor boy! they have sold you, but your mother will save you yet!
Good Lord! what's that? My sakes alive if it ain't Lizy! Get on your clothes, old man, quick! I'm gwine to open the door.
Lord bless you! I'm skeered to look at ye, Lizy! Are ye tuck sick, or what's come over ye?
I'm running away, Uncle Tom and Aunt Chloe, carrying off my child! Master sold him!
Yes, sold him! I crept into the closet by mistress' door tonight and heard master tell mistress that he had sold my Harry
The good Lord have pity on us! Oh! it don't seem as if it was true. What has he done that master should sell him?
and you, Uncle Tom, both, to a trader, and that the man was to take possession to-morrow.
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