YEARS of anxiety and effort and hope Deferred went by. At length, in 1852, Isaac received from his mother's master the long-desired letter, saying he would sell her to him for the sum of four hundred dollars. But now that the old trouble was over, a new fear tormented the faithful son. Was this woman really his mother? More than twenty years had passed since they were separated, and the only evidence he had of her existence was the testimony of her cousin in Mobile. Slight foundation it seemed upon which to rest so weighty a matter. Might it not be merely a plan of her master's to lure him into the of slavery and punish him for his free spirit; or else to dispose probably of an old and useless servant? His heart sickened at the thought. He must be sure that he was right before he went further, for to be disappointed at last would be more than he could bear. So he wrote a letter to the master, asking him to put various questions to her, relative to incidents in his early life, with which she only was acquainted.

If your mother had been lost for twenty years, and you hoped to regain her through the remembrances or your childhood, how would you recall the birthday festival, and the prayers for you beside your little bed when your head was on her bosom, and the twilight walk through the rose-scented lanes when she told you a story of her girlish days, and that sad morning when, for an outbreak of passion, you fell into disgrace with your father, and she soothed and calmed you, and gently led you back to the path of duty and of love! Isaac was a poor slave boy when he knew a mother's care, but servitude can not crush out the heart's flowers, and he had remembrances which were sweet to him, and which he knew would wake a response in her heart if living she were. How anxiously did he wait for that letter which would be life or death to his hopes! It came at last. His questions were more than answered. Taking up the incidents as he narrated them, she had gone farther and recalled many things which he had forgotten, and sent them to him in her simple words with messages of affection.

That night what fervent thanksgiving did he send up to heaven for the blessed knowledge that he had a mother—he who had been so friendless in the world; that she loved and trusted him, and perhaps was even then supplicating their common Father for her distant son.

He now set about preparing to raise the money for her liberation. In March, 1856, he left Detroit, stopping wherever he had friends, or could make them, and finally reached New York in early autumn, having some two hundred and fifty dollars collected.

After a few weeks in the city and vicinity, he raised the balance of the amount, and then a new difficulty arose. How was the money to be transmitted, and his mother brought North? For experience has shown that it is a less troublesome and delicate thing to deal with Japan, and China, and Algiers, than with our Southern States, when it is desired to give to any of the colored population their birthright of freedom. Various plans were proposed and abandoned. At last he went to the office of Adams's Express Company, to see if it could be accomplished through their means. They declined doing it directly, but referred him to a well-known merchant of New York, as one who would advise and assist him, and for whom they would willingly undertake the matter. This gentleman listened to the story, and going to the Bank of the Republic, which is very popular at the South, deposited the money there, and arranged with the officers to have their correspondent in Selma, Alabama, purchase the woman and see her, with the requisite papers, consigned to the care of the Express company.

The burden of care was now taken from Isaac; the responsibility rested upon others. He had been buoyant and full of courage while active exertion remained, but when that was ended and nothing was left for him but patient waiting, the very intensity of his feelings gave birth to fears, and led him to count the chances for her safe release, and to brood over every possible disaster. She had been lost to him for a score of years, and he could have heard of her death at any time with comparative resignation, but now that she had come back to him in blessed resurrection, and the meeting seemed so near, her loss would be like shipwreck to the storm-tossed mariner, when just in sight of the green fields, and the peaceful spire, and the cottage of love for which his heart had yearned through all the dreary voyage. Disturbed and anxious, he went that evening to his lodgings, and retiring to rest, was soon lost in uneasy slumber.

And he dreamed. Some of his life-scenes passed before him like the moving pictures of a panorama, so real that the present was forgotten in the past they restored. He saw himself a boy, sitting on the dirt-floor of his mother's little cabin at Fayetteville, after a hard day's work, and pouring his sorrows into her sympathizing ear. He had just began to realize who it is to be a slave. He had been accustomed to play with the master's children, and had had many little privileges about the house, but now that he was old enough to labor, he was kept in the field from dawn till dusk, under the eye of an overseer who had no leniency for his youth nor compassion for his fatigue. The poor mother could not point her boy to a brighter lot, so she only said, with a sigh, as she drew the “hoe-cake” from the ashes for their evening meal, “Well, Isaac, you must try and do your duty by mas'r and the Lord Jesus 'll stand by ye. Near as I can find out, He had heaps o' trouble all His days.”

The cabin faded away, and, almost a man in years and size, he stood by the “slave-pen,” bidding her farewell before she went to Alabama. With unutterable grief he turned to depart, but her faith would not let her go without one word of comfort, so she called after him, “Keep a good heart, Isaac, and the Lord help ye! Put your trust in Him and He'll never leave nor forsake ye. Perhaps we shall see each other before we die!” This great anguish passed over, and he was in Louisiana, toiling for his freedom. Hundreds of dollars had been paid to his master, but obstacles were constantly thrown in his way, and he was sometimes on the point of rebellion and despair. But he thought of his mother, and seemed to hear her saying, as of old, “Be patient; keep on, and the good Lord 'll bring it all right one o' dese mornins.” And then he was a free man in Detroit, and the pastor of a Methodist church; longing earnestly that his mother might share the advantages of his position, and feeling inspired every day to labor by the remembrance of her christian virtues. And then he was in the actual present, and the money had been sent for her redemption, and he was trembling lest after all, the scheme might fail, In his dream he cried to heaven, “O merciful Father! shalt all her faith and trust in Thee be for nought? Wilt thou not reward the love and service of sixty years?” And then he thought an angel bent over him and whispered, “Fear not, thy fidelity and hers have been chronicled. Wait a little while and thou shalt clasp thy mother in thine arms.”

He awoke. The sun was shining brightly into the room, and having faith now that he was soon to meet her, he rose and prepared to leave New York for a little while, in order to raise the money necessary to defray their expenses till they should reach Detroit.

HAVING thus far followed the son, let us leave him among his Northern friends, and return to trace the history of the mother.

About the year 1796, (a slave's precise age is a matter of conjecture,) in a small cabin on a plantation not many miles from Fayetteville, North Carolina, a little colored girl was born. There were no great rejoicings when she came into the world. Her parents had been all their lives in servitude, and knew no higher pleasures than it afforded, but they felt, despite their ignorance, that their days passed wearily, and it was no joy to them to rear children for the same fate. No dainty wardrobe was ready for her use; no tiny caps nor embroidered dress, nor soft flannel blanket, but with her midnight earnings the mother had purchased two frocks of cheap print, to which her mistress had added one of her own children's cast-off dresses; and in this coarse apparel the little Sally, for so she was called, rolled about and stretched her chubby limbs as complacently as if she had been enveloped in a princess' lace and linen.

In a few weeks the mother returned to her labor in the field, and Sally was placed with old “Aunt Katy,” who had charge of all the children on the plantation. At night, when the tasks were done, her mother took her to her own dwelling, returning her in the morning to the nurse. So she passed through babyhood and grow into a stout little girl, running about the cabin and over the grounds, as unconscious of her relations to life as the dog with which she played, or the bird that sang in the old sycamore above the door. No pains were taken to develop anything but her animal nature—no one taught her to lisp the name of God, or to trace His hand in every object which surrounded her, or to regard His holy law in her daily life. Why should they? She was only a piece of property! Her mother, although possessed of more than ordinary intelligence and energy, was not then a religious woman. In spite of her hard labor, she managed to keep her cabin in better order, and her children more comfortably clad than most of the other servants; indeed, so full of life and spirit was she, that when the toilsome week was over, none enjoyed more highly the Saturday-evening dance or the Sunday holiday. She was a good mother, as far as she knew, and trained her children to habits of industry and activity. Speaking of those days, Aunt Sally said: “I tell you how my mother done me—she whipped me when I didn't work to please her, but 't was the gloriousest thing!”

The master required but little work of the child. It is policy to leave the slaves to grow and strengthen, unfatigued by labor, until they are old enough to be constantly occupied, as a colt is loft unshackled, with free range of the pastures, until the “breaking” time comes. When about nine years old, Sally began to be employed in doing errands for her mistress, in sweeping the leaves from the walks, and in weeding the garden. She was full of fun and frolic, but she meant to be a good girl, and whenever she was blamed for any thing, although she tried to escape the threatened whipping, yet she was careful not to be guilty of the same offense again. There was a little girl, named Mary, about her own age who shared all her tasks. Rare play-fellows they were—talking and singing and running about together from morning till night. One bright day in Sally's tenth summer, Mary suddenly sickened and died. So full of life when the still arose—so silent, so motionless, when it went down! It was the first bereavement Sally had ever known, and she was almost frantic in her grief. No one told her of death's brighter meaning; she saw only its sternness and gloom. Throwing herself beside the unconscious child, and sleeping only at momentary intervals, she consumed the night in calling upon her name, and when morning came, she went to the garden, and, gathering the choicest flowers, placed them in her hand, as if death were an ugly dream which daylight and bloom would scare away. So the weary hours went by, and when at evening preparations were made for the funeral, she begged to be allowed to join the procession. How strange and solemn it seemed as all the servants of the household, bearing lighted torches, walked two by two, through the forest path to the burying-ground, preceded by the preacher, singing these dirge-like words— “Bear her gently, calm and slow,To the home where she must go: One by one we'll follow on,By and by we'll all be gone Over Jordan.“Deep within the pine tree's shadeHas her quiet grave been made;Sleeping here and sleeping there,We shall meet from everywhereOver Jordan.“Now we leave her to her rest;Jesus! Savior! ever blest, Take us soon from earth's alarms, Safe within Thy sheltering arms Over Jordan!”

The little coffin was lowered, the earth was thrown upon it, and with another wailing song the party returned. But Sally did not forget.

It was a balmy day in October. The fervid heats of Summer were over, and there was a refreshing coolness in the air. The garden was gay with autumn flowers, and every waft of wind that went over the trees, bore to the ground the broad leaves of the sycamore to rest upon the myriad needles of the pine. In one of the paths stood Sally, broom in hand, busy in removing them as they fell. She looked up and saw, approaching, her young master, a handsome youth, elegantly attired, and having in his face, and manner a certain reckless frankness which defied the judgment and straightway won the heart. Sally's quickness pleased him, and he often stopped to exchange a kind word with her.

“This wind keeps you busy, eh, Sally?”

“Yes, Mas'r. Don't more'n got 'em swept away 'fore down they comes agin.”

“Is that what makes you look so sober?”

“No. Mas'r. I's thinkin' 'bout Mary, an' wonderin whar she is, 'cause the preacher said, when they put her in the ground, she'd gone ober Jordan, an' we must all got religion an' follow on arter, an' 'pears like I dunno 'xactly what he meant.”

“Now, Sally, don't you believe any such canting nonsense. When we die, that's the end of us; there's no hereafter. Look here,”—and as he spoke he trod one of the yellow sycamore leaves into the earth—“see this leaf! In a few days it will be crumbled into dust; it's so with us when we die, and that is all.”

“But, Mas'r, I thought mebbe we might come up out of the ground sometime, like the flowers do in the spring.”

“O, no, Sally, I tell you there's nothing after death. Don't bother yourself with such things,” and he sauntered down the walk, and was soon out of sight under the arching trees. Just then a shower of leaves came pattering to the earth. Poor Sally sighed as she thought of their swift decay, and wondered if “young Mas'r,” who was an oracle in her eyes, were right, and resolved that at least she would take his advice, and trouble herself no more about the matter.

She was now employed to carry every day to the field-hands their dinner. It was a long walk that she had to take across the pastures, with the bread and meat and boiled rice, borne in a large wooden bowl upon her head. A fence lay in her way, and one day, in climbing it, the bowl was upset and the provisions strewn upon the grass. In a tremor of fear she replaced them in the bowl and hastened on. Her delay was noticed, and the overseer coming up to her, whip in hand, demanded its cause. When he discovered some grains of sand sticking to the rice, she confessed the whole and begged him to forgive her. But forgiveness was not in his heart. He called her careless and lazy, and, seizing her by the shoulder, whipped her severely. She went home miserable indeed. She had nothing to turn to for comfort, and her future— “It rambled out in endless aisles of mist,The farther still the darker.”

Every night she had to sit up late, carding rolls for her mother to spin, or spinning herself under her direction. Her only recreation was an occasional dance on Saturday evening. So in dreary monotony her days went on.

The music and the somber pines brought back that other evening when she had soon her little playmate buried, and the tears rolled down her cheeks as she passed through the crowd and sought the tent belonging to her master.

The wind sighed all night through the trees, and the stars shone overhead. Sally lay down to sleep upon the straw floor, sorely puzzled to reconcile what she heard about the mysterious future. In her dreams, she thought her young master died, but came to her again in the garden-path, looking wan and wretched, and told her, in a voice like the wind in the pines, that he had been mistaken; that there was a hereafter, and that she must take warning by his miserable fate, and prepare to meet it. Then she thought she lay calmly on her own death-bed, and all who stood around rejoiced with her that her toilsome days were over, and that she was sinking into the sleep from which no master's call could rouse her, and from which she never could rise to pain.

The sun shone brightly into the tent, and she woke. The morning was glorious out there in the forest. The birds sang and the dew glistened, as they might have done in Eden when the world was young. The early meal was soon despatched, and the tents put in order, for a, new preacher was expected, and the closing exercises were eagerly anticipated by all. Carriages began to arrive, and by ten o'clock a vast congregation had assembled in the grove. Just in front of the platform sat Sally, in a seat which she had taken pains to secure an hour before. The people were becoming impatient, when a murmur was heard, and the expected preacher, who had ridden hastily from another meeting, passed through the crowd and gained the stand. He was a tall, slender man, with an impetuous manner, and a face which seemed to say: “Be earnest, earnest., earnest;Do what thou dost as if the stake were heaven,And that thy last deed ere the judgment day.”

He throw aside his traveling coat, and without delay began to sing, in a rich, minor voice, these words: “Hark! 'tis the trump of judgmentThat God's archangel blows!O, sinner! will you hastenTo Jesus with your woes?For on this little moment,Before the hour of doom,Hang endless years of glory,Or endless years of gloom.“Perhaps you do not hear it,Perhaps your heart is cold,And earth's enticing pleasuresAre all that you behold.O, sinner! look and listen,And loud for mercy cry;For in His sweet compassionThe Savior passes by.”

There was no heart that was not awed by the solemn music, and every head was bowed, as the preacher knelt to pray. Sally had never heard such a prayer, It was the outpouring of a heart that said— “I will not lot thee go except thou bless me,” me and all this waiting congregation. It was talking with God as friend talks with friend, till Sally believed in His existence with her whole soul, and expected to see Him appear in the parted sky, and answer with audible voice the strong petition. When it was ended, the preacher rose, and, opening the Bible, read the parable of the tares of the field, selecting for his text the closing verses:

“The Son of man shall send forth His angels, and they shall gather out of His kingdom all things that offend, and them which do iniquity, and shall cast them into a furnace of fire; there shall be wailing and gnashing of teeth.”

“There shall the righteous shine forth as the sun in the kingdom of their Father. Who hath ears to hear, let him hear.”

There was no logical introduction, no display of doctrines, but the truth was sent straight home to every hearer as if he, and the speaker, and God alone were present. In simple words, and with imagery drawn from the scenes about them, the preacher portrayed their duty and their danger. “This morning,” said he, “as I was riding through the forest, I saw a bird trembling and fluttering in the snare of a serpent. It would have been devoured had I not sprung from my horse and killed the monster. Ah! thought I, this is just the way the devil snares poor sinners. Those of you who are in high stations he charms with riches, and honors, and worldly ease; and to those who are poor, and have little to hope for in life he whispers, ‘You have no need to trouble yourselves about doing right; you must take what comfort you can now, and rely upon happiness hereafter;’ or else, he tells you, ‘You may do as you please, for death will end your existence.’ No matter what he says, you are in his power, and he is luring you on to destruction, and unless you call to Christ to vanquish him with speedy blows, he will swallow you up in infinite ruin.”

Sometimes he rose to a higher, wilder strain. “Did you ever think what it would be to be cast out for ever from God? If it were for a million of years, you could endure that; but for ever!—that is unbearable. What is hell? Why, it is a great burning desert, over which the lost wander without shelter, or cooling draught, or momentary repose, unable to be quiet because of the fires of rage and remorse that torment them from within. In the center of this desert there rises a mountain, and on it is a huge clock. Once in a thousand years it strikes one, and as the mournful sound vibrates through the burning air, the wretched souls shriek out in echo, Eternity just begun! Eternity just begun!”

Having, with rapid gesture and passionate utterance, pictured the condition of the sinner, he began to speak in gentle tones of “the Lamb of God, who taketh away the sins of the world.” And he sang:

Sally had listened with her whole soul to the preacher, and now these tender words quite overpowered her. Was she not a sinner? Had she not a heavy load to bear? Did she not yearn for sympathy and rest? She looked up with streaming eyes and saw just before her her young master, who, out of idle curiosity, had come to the camp ground. In spite of his irreligion, he was momentarily affected by the scene.

Among the servants who worked on a distant part of the plantation, was a young man named Abram Williams. Sally was now thirteen years old, and her mistress decided that she should be married, and that this young man should be her husband. Both were her property, therefore the only part they had to play was to acquiesce in the arrangement. It happened very well in this case, but the same power could have been employed, had they disliked each other. What think you of a system which gives such unlimited control, not only over the time and labor of men and women, but over their most sacred affections? Sally had never seen him, and knew nothing about the matter, till one day, when she was in the house, her mistress said—

“Well, Sally, you 're thirteen years old, and I want you to be married. There's a young man over on the plantation who'll make you a good husband. He'll come here soon, and you'll see him,” and then followed an enumeration of his good qualities.

“Laws, Missis!” was the only reply Sally could make. After that she missed no opportunity to speak of him to the simple-hearted girl, till Sally said, “'Pears like I loved him 'fore ever I saw him.” True to her word, the mistress sent for him. They were pleased with each other, as she had predicted, and as there was no reason for delaying their union, it was agreed that they should be married as soon as the hurry of the planting time was over. He was a kind, good-hearted man, and Sally was happier than she had been for a long time, in feeling that she had some one to love who would love her.

One pleasant Saturday afternoon, a few weeks after this, was fixed upon for the wedding. Work was closed early, so that the servants might participate in the festivities. Sally's scanty wardrobe had been growing less in her careful mother's absence, and now she had no decent dress for the occasion. Her mistress produced from her own stores an old white muslin. frock, and added to it a bright ribbon for her waist, and a gauze handkerchief to tie around her head. Abram was equally destitute, and his coarse field dress was exchanged for the time for some cast off clothes of his master's, which made him look, so Sally thought, quite like a gentleman. As a special mark of favor, the Ceremony was to be performed in the house. The hour came, and with their bridemaid and groomsman they stood up before the colored Methodist preacher who was in waiting. He opened the Bible and read the account of the marriage at Cana. Sally had never heard it before, and the thought that Jesus had been present at an earthly wedding, impressed her, more than anything had ever done, with the importance of what she was about to do. No one had ever taught her the sacredness of the marriage tie. She had heard it jested about, and had seen it lightly broken, and so it was to her rather an incident of life than one of its solemnities. But now an awe crept over her; she felt as if God were there, and resolved, in heart, to do all in her power for her new-found friend. The reading was followed by a prayer, and then they were pronounced husband and wife. There was a momentary hush in the room. All seemed touched by the services save the master, who had condescended to grace them with his presence, and stood leaning in the door-way, with a satirical smile upon his face. What were to him the words, “whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder?” Did he not know that if for any reason he wished to raise a sum of money, he should separate them, and sell them, with as little feeling as he would a horse or a bushel of rice? No wonder he smiled and thought it folly! The mistress rose, and going up to the young couple, wished them much of happiness and prosperity. She was followed by all the servants in their turn, and when the congratulations were over, she led the way to the open air, where a table was set upon the lawn. It was ornamented with a handsome cake, which she herself had made, and adorned with flowers. Sally, as lady of the day, was made to sit down and pour coffee for the company. When the repast was ended, the lawn was quickly cleared for a dance, in which the mistress insisted that the newly married pair should take the lead. Sally had never danced since the camp-meeting, but they all insisted that she would not be properly married unless she did so, and she was forced to comply. “Dat was de last time I danced,” said she, in relating it; “'pears like 't want right, noway.”

It was a gay party, and as evening came on, Sally's light-heartedness returned, and she thought she had never been so happy in her life. Ah! could she have looked into the future, and seen what deepest griefs would come to her through her a affections, what gloom would have o'ershadowed her marriage eve! The light wind in the trees would have changed to a mournful wail, and the stars that now seemed to smile, would have gazed down upon her with saddest eyes. And the birds singing good-night songs in the sycamores above her—the happy birds who could choose their mates and live lovingly all the summer through without one fear of separation, how would their notes have pierced her heart, could she but have looked forward!

But no “coming event cast its shadow before,” and in a merry mood the party broke up, and the servants sought their cabins.

THE Sabbath morning rose clear out of the starry night, and with it came the necessity of Abram's return to his plantation, in order to be ready for Monday's work. Sally was distressed at this immediate separation. He was much older than herself, and her young heart was happy to have something to cling to, and to call its own. She prepared him the best breakfast in her power from the remnants of the wedding table, and then, tying a handkerchief over her head, set out to accompany him as far as she was able, on his homeward way. Hand in hand they walked through the dewy fields, trying to encourage each other with the hope that there would come a time when they should know no separation, The merry birds flow singing above them, the early flowers gave out their odor, the pines waved their branches in the breeze, clad in the fresh green of spring. Sally tried to restrain her tears, but when they reached the bounds of her master's plantation, beyond which she could not go without special permission, they burst forth anew.

“I know I's wicked, Abram', but I jest wish Mas'r Harry had to go 'way leave Missis like you leave me; I do! De white folks ken do jest as dey please, why can't we?”

“Don't cry, Sally,” said kind-hearted Abram, “I'll 'come'' back an' see you soon as dey'll let me.”

Sally had thrown herself down beneath the shadow of a pine, and sat for some minutes quietly. At length she exclaimed:

“I's wonderin' if de Lord knows how bad I feels dis morning'. He had such heaps o' trouble, I specs He's sorry for us. Come an' kneel down, Abram, an' I'll pray to Him de bes' way I ken.”

Together they knelt, and in simple, broken words she poured out her heart to Him who never slights the humblest cry. A strange peace filled her soul, and, rising, she bade her husband a calm farewell. He was awed by the prayer, for to know much loss of religion than she, and promising to see her on Monday night, if possible, he turned away, and was soon lost to the gaze amid the somber pines.

It was high noon when Sally reached home. As she walked up the long avenue that led to the house, the first object which attracted her attention was the carriage of her old mistress before the door. Then her mother had come—her mother, whom she had not seen for months! She ran quickly to the house to see if it were so, and was told by one of the servants that “Ole Missis” had really returned. She had been prevented from reaching home the night before by finding one of the bridges gone on the road to Fayetteville, and had arrived about an hour previous. To Sally's eager inquiries for her mother, she answered, that, after helping her tired mistress to bed, she had left the house. “I specs she's lookin' arter you, Sally; she took on powerful when she heard you'd done got married.”

Sally hastened to her mother's old cabin, which now was hers, and, sure enough, there she was sitting on the low bed, She looked so neat in her trim waiting-maid's dress, that her daughter, who had approached unperceived, could not help stopping to regard her with admiration. A moment, and she was in her arms.

“Oh, mother, I's so glad you've come.”

“Chile, chile,” said the mother, while unwonted wonted tears ran down her cheeks, “what have ye done? De Lord knows I'd rather have soon ye in yer grave than married. S'pose ye thought ye'd be better off, but chile, yer mistaken. Mebbe Abram Williams is a good man, an'll be kind to ye; but de kinder he is, an de more ye loves him, de worse ye'll feel by an' by. Don't I know? Didn't I love your father better than all de world, an' wa'nt he allers kep' way on de big plantation, till now dey say he's is sold to a speculator? An' den, when I laid out to take some comfort in my chil'n, an' worked so hard to take care of 'em, wan't dey all scattered an' carried off, de Lord knows whar, an' you only left in de ole cabin when I come home? Oh, Sally, gettin' married's de beginnin' o' sorrow; my heart aches to think what ye've got to bar! De white folks ken get married an' live happy all der days, but 'pears like dere's no peace for us no whar.”

“Look here, Sally,” said he, “do you put the milk in a pan that is n't washed?”

“Oh, no, mas'r, I takes partikler pains to have it clean.”

“Do you mean to contradict your mistress?”

“I didn't, mas'r.”

“You didn't, did you? I'll see!”

Seizing her by the arm, he whipped her severely, and at length desisting from very weariness, he called out, “Now see if you'll tell the truth the next time.”

Half crazed with pain and terror, she crept away to the field. She dared not neglect her tasks, and all through that wretched day she followed the plow, smarting from the blows. It was the crisis of her fate. Year after year she had suffered on, and now she felt that she could endure no longer. With her buoyant nature, she would not have despaired could she have seen one distant gleam of hope, but matters were daily getting worse on the plantation, and she know not where to turn for light.

Revolving those things in her mind as she went her weary rounds, she came to the desperate resolution of running away, and with uplifted heart, she asked God to pardon her if she was wrong, and to help her if she was right. Communicating to no one her intention, he sought her cabin at the usual hour, and procuring her children's supper, eating none herself, so oppressed was she by her pain, and by the thought of what she was about to do. She dared not leave the grounds till all was quiet, and while the children slept upon the floor, she busied herself in collecting their little clothing, and tying it up in a bundle, which she could conveniently carry. The early moon was shining in the sky, and she must wait till it went down. As she sat there in silence, she wondered if she were about to commit a sin, for she had been trained to such implicit obedience to her master, that she hardly dared think of resisting his will. Suddenly she heard the sound of horses' hoofs, and of voices, coming up the walk. She remembered that her master had ridden over to Fayetteville in the morning, and it was his voice, and that of the overseer, to which she listened.

“Here's that girl, Sally, Mr. Green, you must look after her a little. She's never been fairly broken in yet. I made a beginning, this morning. You must train her.”

“Ah! leave me alone for that, sir. I'll fetch her up to the mark. I'll give her a bigger task to-morrow, and if she don't do it, she'll see what she'll get.”

“The fact is, Mr. Green, I don't care how much you got out of 'em. Things are going to ruin, and I must make more money in some way.”

The voices died away, and with them Sally's irresolution. She would go at all risks. The moon went down, and all was still. Taking the sleeping Daniel in her arms, she gently shook the older boy, saying, “Isaac, Isaac, wake up chile. Don't you want to go an' see yer father?” He opened his eyes at the words, and accustomed to obey his mother in all things, took her hand as she passed out—out into the night so pure and calm, with the holy stars above her, and the dewy earth beneath her feet. Abram was then at work on a plantation a few miles away, and thither she directed her steps. Avoiding the roads lest she should be discovered by some belated traveler, she hurried on through the fields, keeping, where it was possible, under the deep shadow of trees and fences. Now and then the cattle stirring in the pastures, or the neigh of a horse startled by her footsteps, would make her heart beat quick, and she would stop to listen, but no harm came to her, and carrying one, and sometimes both, of the children, and hushing their questioning cries, she at length reached her destination. Going softly up to the door of Abram's cabin, she entered and roused him from his heavy slumber. He was terrified to see her there with her children, but soon understood wherefore she had come.

“There's no time to lose, Abram. I heerd that Aunt Marthy was a-takin' in washin' in Fayetteville, an' I know she'll let me an' de chil'n stay with her.”

Breaking in two a piece of hoe-cake which she had saved from her supper, she gave it to the boys, and rising from the low bed where she had seated herself for a moment, she took Daniel again in her arms, saying to her husband, “You mus' tote Isaac, Abram, he's done tired out, poor chile.”

It was past midnight. Fayetteville was four miles distant, and Abram must return for his morning's work, so they hurried on. He knew the road, and as it passed through a quiet neighborhood, he was not afraid to keep it. They talked little, for fear of being on some way overheard, but arranged that Sally and the boys should keep hid for a while with “Aunt Marthy,” and that Abram should see them as often as possible. Sally knew not what was before her, but in spite of the haste and the danger, it was delightful to be walking so far from the plantation and away from the overseer's eye. Stiff and sore from the whipping she had received, her heart was yet lighter than it had been for many a day. The dawn had not yet begun to glimmer in the east when they reached the town and sought the narrow street and humble cottage of “Aunt Marthy.” A good old creature she was; owned by a man in Fayetteville, but hiring her time and supporting herself and her children by washing. She received Sally with open arms, without manifesting much surprise at her appearance. She had had the experience of many years, and she knew too well the chances and changes in the life of a slave to be astonished by them. “Laws, chile, I's been through it all, an' I knows ye can't bear it unless ye loves do Lord.”

While it was yet dark Abram bid them good-bye and hastened away. It was now October, and from this time until New Year's she lived quietly with Marthy, assisting her daily toil. The boys were so young that they would hardly be recognized, so they played about the street with the other children, but Sally never went out except at night; and then cautiously, and for short distances. During this time Abram was sold on to a plantation near Fayetteville, and he often stole in at evening to see his wife. He took pains to hear about her master, and learned from one of the servants that he was fearfully angry when he found Sally had gone, and threatened to kill her if he ever saw her again; also, that his slaves were not to work at home any more, but were all to be hired out at New Year's. Sally knew she could not long remain undetected where she was, and believing that her master would not touch her on account of his own interest, she resolved to go boldly when the day came and hire herself out with the rest.

The important morning arrived, and Sally took her children and went out to a field on the old plantation where she had heard the business of the day would be transacted. What fervent prayers did her heart send up as she walked along! She believed they were heard, and her stop was firmer and her courage stronger as she reached the ground. Her old companions were already assembled there, and a crowd of the neighboring planters were standing about, talking of the price and capacity of those they wished to secure. Among them was her master. He saw her, and muttering something between his teeth, appeared as if he would confront her as she advanced, but the gentleman with whom he was speaking, said something in a dissuasive voice, and he turned away. Sally's heart was full of thanksgiving as she took her place with the rest. She believed the Lord was with her as he was with Daniel in the lion's den. The sales went on, and her turn at last arriving, she was hired by a citizen of Fayetteville, an easy, compassionate man, who had heard of the unjust treatment she had received. A new hope dawned upon her. Perhaps he would let her hire her time as her aunt did. She ventured to propose it to him, and he agreed that for six dollars a mouth, regularly paid to him, she should be her own mistress, and do what she pleased. The moment that she was free to act for herself, with what spirit and energy did she take hold of life. She had always had a natural fondness and aptitude for cooking, and now she resolved to rent a small house, and commence the sale of cakes and beer of her own baking and brewing. Before a week had passed she had rented a little tenement of two rooms, and having procured a barrel of flour and other necessaries in advance, she was ready to sell to any one who would patronize her humble store. Her children were both with her at first. When she had time, she took in washing, and then she accustomed them to help her to beat the clothes. In a month she had not only paid for the flour, but she had also given to her new master the first installment of hire-money. Very judiciously she made her small purchases. She would watch the market-wagons as they came in from the country, and often buy her provisions to great advantage. Every morning she carried a gallon of hot coffee to the market for sale. The gentlemen soon learned to know her, and would buy a cup, sometimes throwing her fifty cents in return. She had never dreamed of having so much money as she now earned. She bought comfortable clothes for herself and her children, and obtained, from time to time, little articles of furniture for her house. And when, at the end of the year the same arrangement was made with her master for a much longer time, her heart overflowed with gratitude to God, and she resolved more and more to dedicate herself to Him. What was it that made her so happy? The privilege of working every moment for the support of herself and her children, and of paying out of her earnings six dollars every month to her master? Verily happiness is not absolute, but relative, in this world.

Abram still worked in the vicinity, and often came to see her and the children. He was a kind and affectionate man, but he had not Sally's strength of character and firmness of principle, and he was easily led astray. He had lately fallen into a habit of gambling, at which she was exceedingly distressed and alarmed. She knew from young “Mas'r Harry,” the ruin to which it led, and while she begged him to abandon it, she loved him so well that she would sometimes give him money when he came and told her of his losses. At length his master discovered his visits to the gambling-room. He was not grieved at his sin, but angry at his disobedience; and, going to Sally, in a dreadful rage, he told her that, if her husband ever gambled again, he would put him into jail, and he never should come out from there as his servant. This frightened Abram, and for a year he kept away. But one night the old temptation returned again, and he went. His master heard of it, and threw him into jail the following day, as he had threatened. Sending for Sally, he told her what he had done, and that he should sell him to Now Orleans.

“Oh, Mas'r de Lord bless ye, won't ye try him once more? He was allers such a good man, an' so kind to me an' the chil'n!”

“Now, Sally, you may just stop your crying around here, for as sure as there's a God in heaven, he never shall come out mine.”

There was no hope, then. He must be sold, and selling to New Orleans was to her like death. How many whom she had known had gone the same way and never been heard of more! She would rather have soon him in his coffin.

It was late when she reached home, too late to go to the jail, and the night must wear away in prayers and tears. She was up with the dawn, and baking some fresh biscuit, and making a pot of her nicest coffee, she took them to the jail, and sat down upon the stone steps until the doors should be opened. Her mother's words came to her mind, and she wept bitterly. Her “evil day” had indeed come. The passers by looked coldly upon her. It was a common thing to see poor slave-women sitting, in tears, upon the steps of the jail. At length she was admitted. Abram was quite overcome, when he saw her, with remorse for his fault and grief at their separation. For they had loved each other, even as people do whose faces are fair! Sally strove with her stronger heart to sustain him and to lift his thoughts to God. But sorrow would have its way, and from nine o'clock till one, they sat weeping and holding each other's hands, as if it were indeed the death hour. At length the rude voice of the jailer was heard ordering her away. They clasped each other convulsively for a moment, but the husband could not speak. Amid her sobs, Sally exclaimed,

“Oh, Abram, far'well! Remember de Lord! Remember de Lord! I shall pray for ye, ye poor soul! Far'well, far'well!”

The next morning Sally resumed her usual duties, and was to be seen in market and at home attending to her customers. The ecstacy of the evening was gone, but something of “the peace of God, which passeth all understanding,” remained. She could not think of her husband without tears, and for six months her health suffered from the shock she had received, yet Jesus seemed nearer to her than ever before, and she was consoled by the thought that He was a friend on whom she could rely, at morning and noon and evening. That sale was truly like death, for she never saw or heard from Abram again. When Isaac was twelve years old, he would have been taken from her and put to service, but he was such a comfort to her, and daily grew so helpful, that she could not bear to part with him, so for two dollars a month she hired him for two years of his master. Her kind Fayetteville master was pleased with him, because he was so bright and active, and offered to teach him to read if his mother would purchase the necessary books. This she gladly did, and as he learned rapidly, (albeit there was no white blood in his veins,) she soon had the delight of hearing the Bible read by her son. It was the highest pleasure she had ever known, to sit down with him in her neat little room, when the work of the day was over, and hear some chapter from the life of Christ, or some thrilling Old Testament story. One night, when he had been reading to her, slowly and carefully, for half an hour, she suddenly exclaimed,

“Laws, Isaac, I never 'spected to see de like o' dis—to hear you readin de Bible like de white folks. 'Pears like de Lord's been so good to ye, I hopes ye'll do all ye ken to, serve Him.”

“I's been thinkin' o' dat dis long time, mother; I b'lieve do Lord's got something for me to do.”

“Yes, chile, we's all got something to do, an' we must be willin' to do whatever de Lord gives us. I's laid awake many a night, thinkin o' dis yer thing, an' prayin' de Lord to help me. When yer father was sold, I thought der want nothin' more for me, but de Lord He brought me through, an' I's made up my mind, 'taint no use calculatin' what He'll do. We mus' try to do right whar he puts us, an' den, if we's prepared for a better place, he'll show it to us. I specs ye 'll be a poor slave all yer days, Isaac, but if de blessed Jesus is yer master, an ye bar de cross for his sake, He'll make ye free at last in de Kingdom!”

The tears stood in the boy's eyes as he listened to his mother's words, and he resolved in his heart to do the best he could in life, and to trust the Lord for all.

When Abram had been gone four years, Sally's master began to look for another husband to fill his place. Sally had seen marriages so lightly made and broken, that it was to her a matter of course. Her respectability and thrift had procured her many admirers, and as her master deigned to consult her on the subject, she chose from among them a free colored man named Beggs, because she thought he could never be sold away from her. He bore a very good character, excepting that be was somewhat addicted to intemperance, but he rarely became intoxicated, or treated her with anything but kindness. He worked at his trade in town, and Sally continued her sale of cakes and beer. She did not love him as she had done her first husband, yet they lived quietly together, and, on the whole, happily. Isaac and Daniel were now away with separate masters, and Sally would have missed them exceedingly had not their places been partly supplied by the birth of a little boy, whom she called Lewis. Other children she had who died in their infancy, so that this little fellow, who was sprightly and affectionate, was doubly dear to her. She was now living in comparative ease and independence. Little by little she had added necessary articles of furniture to her house, and of dress to her wardrobe. Her two rooms, with the porch adjoining, were always neat and in order. Her baking and washing were dispatched in the morning, and then, with clean apron, and nicely folded handkerchief about her head, she was ready to attend to her customers, or to do any little job of sewing which she had taken in, for to her knowledge of cooking and housework she added no small skill as a dressmaker. She was able now to hire a girl to help her in the house, and when it became known how good a seamstress she was, she had much work brought her by the ladies in the vicinity. In her prosperity Sally did not forget the Lord. Most fervently did she thank Him every day for His mercy. Naturally hopeful and buoyant, she enjoyed the happy present, without daring or wishing to anticipate the future. She went regularly to church on the Sabbath, persuading her husband, when he could, to accompany her; and when Isaac and Daniel were permitted to visit her and to go with her also to the meeting, her heart overflowed with thankfulness to God. Sometimes they were allowed to go home with her to spend the Sabbath evening. This was indeed delightful. They must all go into the best room, which was her pride, with its high feather bed, covered with a bright patchwork quilt, its rocking-chair, its little table, by the window, with the glass hanging above it, and its chest of drawers, which contained all the best articles of the family attire. Then she would bring out a plate of her choicest cakes, and treat them each to a cup of coffee, or a mug of her own innocent beer. These joyful evening were always concluded by Isaac's reading a chapter in the Bible, and his mother's offering, up a grateful prayer.

It would be pleasant to pause over this happy time in Sally's life; this little gleam of sunshine in her stormy sky, but events hurried on, and our narrative must follow. Sally's old mistress on the plantation had been gradually declining in health for years, and now news came that she was dead. Her slaves were divided between her brothers and their children, and Sally and her sons fell to one of the nephews, a dissipated young man, who had wasted all his property, and had been waiting impatiently for his old aunt's death, that he might receive his portion of her estate. He wanted to convert some of his share into ready money, so Isaac and Daniel and Lewis were taken and sold in Fayetteville at a public auction. Daniel was bought by a planter far up the country; Isaac, by a gentleman who lived a little way out of the town ; and Lewis, poor little Lewis, his mother's darling, with his merry face and sportive ways,—a speculator from Alabama, saw him, and purchased him to go with a “lot” he had in waiting, to that seemingly distant and unknown land. Sally's grief was great at parting from Daniel, whom she might never see again, for, although not so intelligent as her older son, he had always been and obedient to her. She took leave of Isaac with more hope, for he was not to be so far removed, but when it came to Lewis, who was immediately placed in his purchaser's traveling wagon, she was broken down with anguish. The curse of servitude was upon her, although she had married a free man. She was still a slave, and her children were slaves, and only death could free them. Her distress was increased by the rage and despair of her husband, for he was as fond a father as she was a mother. She saw the money paid down for her boy; she heard him calling good-by to her out of the cart, and, half frantic, she ran to him, and catching him in her arms, held him tightly, as if they could never be parted. He was only three years old, just learning to talk, and every hour developing some new charm in his mother's eyes. He did not understand her grief, and she would not sadden his little heart by telling him he would never see her more. Pleased at the prospect of a ride in a wagon, he laughed and danced about, unconscious of fear or sorrow. Sally gave him a little ginger-cake, saying, as she put it into his hand, “Now, Lewis, break it two , an' give mammy a piece.”

“No,” said he, “didn't ye jes' gin it to me?” The poor mother burst into tears, and the child, thinking it was all because she wanted the cake, exclaimed, “Here, mammy, I will gin ye a piece,” and then her husband came and took her away. With streaming eyes she watched the wagon till it disappeared, and then, as she turned homeward, if she had been familiar with the Scriptures, she would have cried out in anguish, “All Thy waves and Thy billows are gone over me.”

Eagerly she answered—“Yes, mas'r, he's de youngest of my chil'en. Mebbe ye'll tell me whar he is?”

“Wal, he's down in Claiborne, on the Alabama river. There was a gentleman there took a mighty fancy to him, and paid a big price for him, that he did. He's a smart little chap. Shouldn't a minded keeping him myself.”

“He loved his mammy so, mas'r! Didn't he take on when it come night?”

“In course be did. Such young uns allers do, It's nat'ral, you know. He screamed and cried for two or three nights, and I said nothing, 'cause you see, I thought he'd get over it himself. But he didn't, and at last I got tired of it, you know, and I just took him and give him a sound whipping, and he was still as a mouse all the rest of the way. That's the way to manage children.”

“Oh, Lord!” was all Sally could say.

“Wal, as I was going on to tell you, I come through Claiborne on my way back here after another lot; prime ones, too, some on 'em is; first rate bargains; and as I passed by the gentleman's house, there I saw Lewis, with half a dozen other young uns, playing about the yard. I stopped my horse, and called out to him, ‘Lewis! Lewis!’ Then he ran down the walk, and, says I, ‘I'm going back to Fayetteville, where your mammy lives; what shall I tell her?’ He know'd me well enough, and he thought a minute, and then, says he, ‘Tell her to send me some cakes;’ and I promised him I would. Ef I was in your place, too, I'd send him some clothes. He looked kind o' ragged.”

“When are ye gwine back, mas'r?”

“Wal, I reckon about the first o' the week. One of my gals has ran away, and I don't mean to start 'till I get her. Strange they can't take it peaceable like, and not give folks so much trouble. So you jest fix up your bundle, and leave it down to Miller's store, and, if 't aint too large, I'll take it.”

“Thank'ee mas'r, thank'ee,” said Sally, “p'raps ye'll have a drink o' coffee,” and she handed him a smoking bowl full, which he swallowed with great satisfaction.

“La, now,” said he, “that's the real article. I'm sorry you lost your boy, but then we must expect such things in this world of trial,” and with this comforting reflection which the steaming coffee had inspired, he wiped his mouth with his yellow silk handkerchief, and passed on.

It was now Saturday morning, and when her duties were over, Sally hastened home, and, making a small bag of strong calico, she filled it with Lewis' favorite hard ginger-cakes and crackers. Then, going to the drawer which contained his clothes, she took out article after article, and folding them, laid them together, till she came to the pretty cap, over which she hesitated, saying, “I specs he'll never go to meetin'; dere's no use sendin' it; but in a moment she exclaimed, “Yes, I will. Dey shall see how well off he was when his mammy had him.” So they were all tied up together in a neat parcel, and taken to the appointed place, Sally only reserving for herself, as a memento, the little torn apron he had worn the morning before he went away. When she entered the store, the speculator himself chanced to be there, and, giving him the bundle, she said, “Will you please to tell Lewis his mammy says he mus' be a good boy, an' not grieve for her?”

“Oh, you needn't trouble yourself to send that message. “S'pose he's forgot by this time that he ever had a mother.” A low groan was Sally's only answer as she turned away.

Sally now began to wonder that she was left so long undisturbed by her new master, whom she knew to be extravagant and reckless. A fear sometimes seized her heart that She might by suddenly seized and sold as her Children had been, but she tried to be hopeful, And to banish it for the sake of her husband. Alas! Her fears were not unfounded.

One morning, about a year after Lewis was sold, she had been to market as usual, and had purchased a barrel of flour, which was standing outside of the door. Two gentlemen entered, and the girl who helped her being busy, and supposing they wished to buy cakes, and the girl who helped her being busy, and supposing they wished to buy cakes, called to her in the best room to come and wait on them. She went out quickly, but as they were looking about without speaking, she took a chair and sat down, waiting for their orders. At length one of them got up and began to walk around. An undefined terror seized her. Was she sold? Suddenly he stopped before her, and looking her full in the face said—

“Sally, your're mine.”

“Oh, Lord! Whar do ye live?”

But they were not all ill-natured remarks which she heard. In one group was a poor white woman with whom she had often shared her simple meal, and who was now protesting against her fate.

“I tell you it's a mean shame. There aint a better woman in Fayetteville, white or black. Didn't she help me take care of Jimmy all through the fever last fall, and bring me a cup of coffee and a bit of bread whenever he was too sick for me to go to my day's work? I say we'd any of us better be sold than Sally. Any how, I believe she's got the Lord on her side.”

These kind words touched Sally's heart, and for the first time that day the tears came to her eyes. Was the Lord on her side? In the depths of her heart she prayed that He would not desert her in this most desperate hour. “Oh! Mas'r,” she cried, when she could speak, “I's willin' to go with ye if it's de Lord's will, but I'se got a son, my oldest chile, out on de Ridgely plantation, an' a little ways from him my ole mother, an' her I haint seen dis three years—if I could only bid 'em good bye!”

“Well, Sally, if you'll be peaceable and not make me any trouble, I'll send for 'em to come and see you to-morrow morning.”

“Thank'ee, Mas'r,” was her grateful reply.

When she reached her own house, how deserted did everything already look. The landlord had been there, and taken her newly-purchased barrel of flour for rent ; the young girl who assisted her had fled in affright and the rooms were in confusion. The speculator kept guard at the door, and called out to her to make haste and get ready her things. How hard it would have been to her to leave the various articles of household and personal comfort, which by hard labor she had gathered together, if her thoughts had not been engrossed by greater sorrows. Only a limited amount of' baggage could be carried on the long journey, and Sally was restricted to one trunk and a bag, a bed and a tub and a pail. The three last were speedily put in readiness, and then she prepared to fill the trunk and the bag with her clothing. One thing after another was taken from the drawers and folded away, and when she came to Isaac's Bible, she placed it in the bag, that she might give it to him on the morrow. While thus employed, her husband suddenly entered the house. He was away at his work when the news of her sale reached him, and, almost beside himself, he had hurried home to see her once more. Superior to him in thought and energy, he regarded her with a kind of veneration, and was weak as a child at the thought of losing her.

“Oh, Sally, ye shan't go. I can't live without ye. I'll tell dat ar cursed speculator to”——

“Don't go on so, Lewis, I can't bar it; I specs it's de Lord dat sends him.”

“Sally, ye know I's got some money dat I's been savin', an' I know where there's them that'll lend me some more. I'll buy ye of him;” and he went to the door and offered the man two hundred and fifty dollars, the price he had paid for his wife; and when this was refused, three hundred dollars was proffered, with the promise that the money should be paid to him that very evening.

“There's no use talking about it,” said the speculator, “money can't alter this transaction. Sally's going to Alabama, and you may as well be quiet about it.”

“Oh, Lord Jesus!” gasped Sally, as the words reached her through the open door, “go thar with me!”

Half frantic, her husband came back, and now raving, and now embracing her he watched her lay the last things into the trunk upon the floor. “What do ye carry yer clothes for, Sally'? He'll sell 'em to get grain for his cursed horses. I wouldn't take any thing but what I had on my back.”

At this moment the speculator called out to know if Sally was ready, and hastily fastening the trunk, and leaving it with the other things which were to be conveyed to the wagon, and taking the bag in her hand, she went out, saying to her husband, “Bar it as well's ye ken, Lewis, an' cum an' see me in de mornin'.”

Eve was not sadder at leaving Paradise than was Sally when she stepped, for the last time, over the threshold of that humble dwelling, where had passed the only bright days she had ever known. Twilight was fast fading, and the hush of a tranquil summer night was settling upon the town. Who could have thought so much of anguish was in human hearts on such an eve! Silently they walked on, Sally and her master. At the corner of one of the streets she was accosted by a colored man named White, who had always been very friendly to her. Just as he passed her he said, in a low tone, which was unheard by her companion, “I shall come up to de yard to see ye in de evenin'.” When they reached the slave-pen, it was quite dark, but out by the wagons a huge fire was burning, and its ruddy glow shone even on the faces of the poor creatures within the enclosure. Most of them were sleeping, worn out with the misery of the day. Sally took the most quiet corner, and laying her bag down against the fence, had composed herself as well as she was able, when she heard some one speaking through the bars. It was White. He had come to tell her that the speculators, having locked the door, had gone away for a little while, and that if she would wait till they were all asleep, and the fire had burnt low, she could climb over the fence and escape. A wild hope of freedom sprung up within her, and she embraced it as eagerly as an imprisoned bird that had beat its wings hopelessly against unyielding walls, would fly to an open window which revealed the sunny sky. Carefully she took the clothes from her bag and passed them, piece by piece, through the crack to her friend without, and then, when all was quiet, and the firelight glow had faded, she tried to mount the high fence that she might let herself down upon the other side. A difficult thing it was. Two or three times she almost succeeded, and then fell frightened back upon the ground. Just as she was about to attempt it again, in a different manner, the bolt of the door was suddenly withdrawn, and she knew that the master had returned, and that all was over. So quietly she lay down, and closing her eyes as if in sleep, resigned herself to her fate.

The morning dawned bright and beautiful on the fields, and wan and wretched on that imprisoned band. The slave train was to leave before noon, and life-long leave-takings must be crowded into these brief hours. Only a favored few were permitted to enter the yard; most of the poor creatures were standing by the fence, talking through it to their friends without, strangely intermingling oaths and sobs and loving words. Here and there one was heard calling upon God, and committing a friend to his care, but most of them seemed desperate and reckless in their woe. Sally stood, looking out between the boards, to see if, among the multitude, she could discern her mother or her child. The sun rose high in heaven, and the dew forsook the grass, but still they did not come. She began to fear they had not been sent for, when, hastening through the crowd, she saw a tall and comely boy leading an old woman by the hand, whom she knew to be her son and her mother.

Calling to them that they might know where to find her, she sat down by the largest opening in the boards, and gazed out upon them as if all of life were in her eyes. Her old mother was growing childish, and her heart was almost broken at parting from Sally, who was her only daughter and her pride. Her screams and groans were agonizing to hear, and pierced poor Sally's heart with a keener sorrow. Isaac seemed quite stunned and silenced by the blow, but deep thoughts were at work within him, and he was forming resolutions which were to influence his future life. Among the slave company was a young girl of good disposition and character, named Charlotte Rives. The grandmother know her, and begged Sally, as she desired the blessing of the Lord, to watch over and protect her. While they stood thus talking, Sally's husband made his way to the group, with wild, sad face, that betrayed a night of pain. He gave her a small parcel, saying, “There's a new dress for ye, Sally. When ye got to Alabama, if ye think it'll do for me to come, find somebody to write to me, an' I'll surely go to ye.”

“I will, Lewis, I will. I'll pray to de Lord to let ye come.”

“Sally, I can't stay to see ye go. It would kill me. If ye hear any thing from little Lewis, send it to me in de letter. Farwell!”

“Oh, God o' mercy, farwell, farwell!” said Sally, as they wrung each other's hands, and parted.

There was a great commotion now about the yard; then the door was opened, and the speculators entered, and took out first the chained men, whom they arranged in marching order, and then the women and children followed. Last of all came Sally, and as soon as she was without the door, her mother and her son clasped her in their arms. White, upon some pretext, had brought her bag to her again, and now, drawing from it the precious Bible, she put it into Isaac's hand, saying—

“Read it every day, chile, an' pray to de Lord to guide ye. 'Pears like he'll take care of ye. If ye see yer brother Daniel, tell him his mother loves him, an' wants him allers to be a good boy.”

“Oh, mother,” said she to the old woman, “you'se been a good mother to me, an I can't half thank ye for it. Don't take on for me. De Lord'll bless ye, an' bring us all together, I hopes, in de Kingdom.”

Around Sally stood many of her acquaintances, who had been accustomed to attend the same meeting with her, and who prized her friendship, and had come out from Fayetteville to bid her adieu. Some were weeping, some invoking God's blessing upon her, and one was improvizing, in a minor strain, a song which began—

But now the train was ready, and the impatient patient overseer called out to Sally, “Come, hurry up there! You'll have time enough to cry on the road.” One last embrace, and the mother and daughter and son tore themselves from each other's arms, casting back agonized glances as they moved away. Suddenly, the old woman broke from her grandchild's hold, and running after her daughter, untied her checked apron from her waist, and threw it toward her, asking her own in exchange, which was given. Simple pledge! yet was it as dear to them as if it had been a girdle of gems.

“Far'well, far'well, the Lord bless ye,” they cried, till their voices grew faint in the distance, and then the grandmother and the boy returned to their respective masters, and Sally went forward to unknown lands.

“Yes, mas'r,” said Sally, thankful to escape, as she slunk back with the girl to her old place in the tent.

“She deserves a hundred lashes, Leland,” said the overseer, as she turned away, “and if I had my way, she'd get 'em. You know she meant to run off.”

“Well, I s'pose she did, and I don't wonder at it. I tell you, she was better off than we are, and it's mighty hard to be broken up in this way. I can't afford to lose her, but I won't have her whipped for trying to run away. Now remember.”

“I should like to know how such a chicken-hearted man as you come to be in this business, any way?”

“I was brought up to it; my father was in it before me, but I'm sick of it sometimes, that's a fact.” And he walked slowly and thoughtfully to his tent. Poor man! He had moments of great uneasiness, for his heart was yet tender. But interest and custom were stronger than his sense of right; so, after a little disquiet, he lay down and slept soundly in the midst of his victims.

What a night was that for Sally! In her dreams she lived over the day, and Isaac's agonized face was before her, and her mother's scream and her husband's farewell rang in her ears. Bewildered and feverish she awoke. The sun had not yet risen, but the camp was astir, that they might be on their way before the heat of noon. A breakfast, like their evening meal, and then the tents were folded, and the day's march began.

Fifteen miles a day was their average travel. In the first thirty miles out of Fayetteville, they met several country farmers going into town with their produce. Some of them Sally knew, having had dealings with them in the market. They looked wonderingly at her as they passed, while she, poor soul, as road, was almost tempted to break from the line, and follow after them, even though she should be shot down in the attempt. All other feelings were swallowed up in her one desire to escape. If their path led through the forest, she wondered if she could not steal away under its shadow, and at night she lay awake for hours, trying to think of some plan by which to fly and elude pursuit. Siberia never fell colder and more fearful upon the ear and heart of the departing exile than did Alabama upon hers. She remembered the story of the flight of the Israelites from Egypt, and she sometimes thought, perhaps, the Lord would appear for her and give her a marvelous deliverance. But day succeeded day, in monotonous travel, bearing her farther and farther from home, and affording her neither opportunity nor pretext for retracing her steps. She did not quite despair, however, but, every night, when she lay down by the camp-fire, she hoped something would happen to favor her on the morrow.

Five lingering weeks had passed, and the train had wound its toilsome way quite across the Carolinas to the Savannah River, which, swollen by recent rains, rolled its black waters, flecked with foam, downward to the sea. They halted on its banks to prepare for the crossing. The carriage and baggage-wagon were to go over a ferry at some distance above, but the expense was thought too great for the party to be conveyed in this way, and so it was decided that they should ford the stream. At this a dreadful consternation seized the slaves. Naturally timid, and from their field life unaccustomed to the water, they feared to encounter its rushing tide. Shrieks and curses were heard among them, and the jaded limbs of many a stout man quaked in his fetters. The speculator was to go by the ferry, and was giving the overseer some directions about their place of meeting, when Sally stepped forward and said, in a trembling voice,

“Please, mas'r, what river is dis?”

“It's the Savannah river, Sally.”

“Oh, mas'r! have we done got past Car'lina?”

“Yes, Sally, you've seen the last of it.”

“Is dat ar Alabama?” pointing across the river.

“Oh, bless you, no. That's Georgia. We've got hundreds of miles to go yet.”

Sally could not speak, for such a faintness came over her that she thought she was dying. With the word Carolina was associated all she knew of home and place, and Georgia and Alabama were as vague and indefinite as if they had been in another world. But there was no time to waste in thought. The women and children were made to go first into the stream, followed by the men, who were fastened together in a line, and ordered to assist them. At the first plunge into the water, they screamed and almost fell down in their fear, but the overseer was behind them on horseback, shouting and swearing and urging them on. Desperation was in their hearts, and no ray of hope lighted up their future. Most of them would rather have died than gone forward to the misery beyond, and tried to bury themselves beneath the water, but some were afraid of death, and struggled madly to keep above the waves; so with cries from the half-drowning women and children, and oaths and fierce wranglings among the men, at last, panting and exhausted, they reached the Georgia shore.

Sally looked back at Carolina, sleeping in the afternoon sun, and knew she never should see it more, because that fearful river could not be crossed again. “Oh, then,” said she, “ 'peared like something burst inside of me, and I gin up altogether.”

And now the most toilsome part of the journey commenced, for all hope of escape was gone, and they were exhausted by previous travel. New scenes were about them. The pine groves of the Fayetteville region had given place to the more varied forests of Georgia. A richer vegetation clothed the earth, and flowers and birds, which they had never seen before, made the woodlands gay.

But Sally went forward unconscious, like one in a dream, and old Hagar, whose husband was in Carolina, and Charlotte, who had left a loving mother, wept and bemoaned their fate at every stop of the way. The children were now carried constantly in the wagon, and the speculator, finding that the women were failing, and that their feet were bruised and swollen, ordered that they should take turns in riding also; and because the wagon was overloaded, sometimes gave up the carriage to them and walked himself. The men, who had no such relief, but must plod on from day to day, began to suffer exceedingly from the chafing of their fetters, and the master determined to have them exchanged for lighter ones, at the first opportunity. Their way lay mostly through forests and thinly settled districts, but, after a few days, they reached a village where was a blacksmith's shop, erected on purpose to shoe the horses and repair the irons of the slave-gangs which passed that way. They halted in front of it, and the negroes, throwing themselves upon the grass, were taken, two by two, into the shop, and their fetters exchanged for those which were easier to wear. In the village was a minister, a true gospel preacher, whose heart was wrung by the scenes which almost daily passed before his eyes on this great thoroughfare. As he glanced from his window in the hot noon, and saw the slaves lying there looking so spent and worn, with the chains about their ankles, his whole soul was moved, and, coming out of his house, he hastily crossed the road to where the speculator was sitting under a tree, and began to expostulate with him, and to set before him the enormity of the traffic in which he was engaged.

“What you say is all true, sir,” said Leland; “but I was raised in the business, and if I don't take 'em down, somebody else will. I assure you I treat 'em well. I drive the best gangs that go into Alabama. There's a proof of what I say, sir; their irons were too heavy for comfort, and, at considerable expense to myself, I'm having lighter ones made for 'em.”

“I see you're a kind-hearted man, and the last one that should be in a trade like this— driving men and women in chains through the country like so many cattle. You believe they have souls, don't you?”

“Souls? I sometimes think their souls are a great deal bigger than ours. There's that woman, Sally, leaning against the tree yonder—she's got more soul than a dozen of some white women I know.”

“And yet you can buy and sell them as if they were blocks of wood! I tell you, you are committing a fearful crime. God's word is against you, and the judgment day will be against you, when you stand there with them to give an account of your lives.”

“Bless me, sir, no, minister ever talked so to me before. I had a good many such thoughts myself; last year, after having a great fuss at the sale of one of my gangs, so I wont to my minister in Alabama and asked him what he thought about it? ‘O,’ said he, ‘these are unavoidable evils, and the world is full of them every where. There's no doubt that slavery is a divine institution, and if you do the best you can, you needn't give yourself any trouble about the matter.’ I was quieted for the time, but ever since I bought Sally, I've been thinking the same things again; and I believe you're right.”

“Why, yes, George,” said his wife, “we really need a cook. It seems like I've had nothing but trouble with Sue since you went away.”

“Well, then, there's just the woman for you. I bought her in Fayetteville; she kept a cake shop there, but she's sick, Mary, she's sick and miserable,—and you'd better take her right into the house and attend to her. Her master would sell her because every body said she was doing too well for a nigger. I declare, I never felt so bad in my life as I have for her, and if I can, I mean to keep her and use her well.”

“O father!” said Bessie, who stood by, “may I run and tell her she's to come to the house, and not to be sold any more?”

“Yes, Bessie; cheer her up, if you can.”

With light foot the little girl ran to the cabin appropriated to the women, and looking in, saw Sally lying on the rude bed, the picture of despair.

“Don't feel bad, Aunty,” said she, as she put her little white hand in Sally's; “my father says you shall live with us in the house, and nobody shall carry you away.”

Sally was too wretched and hopeless to speak. She wished she might be left alone to die. She was like one who has gone through the agonies of dissolution in drowning, and to whom any attempt at restoration is painful. But the caressing hand and the kind words went to her heart in spite of herself, and she wept.

A few days of rest and kind nursing quite improved Sally's bodily health; but her greatest trouble was at heart. She thought she was abandoned of God, and that He had never loved her, or He would not have sent her such trials. There was no one to speak to her of Jesus, or to remind her that “whom the Lord loveth, He chasteneth,” and so she went on, bearing this grievious burden in silence and alone. As soon as she was able, the cooking was given into her charge, and Charlotte was taken to the kitchen to assist her. Her new master's affairs were in a desperate condition. He had gone on his last trading expedition, determined, if possible, to retrieve his fortunes; but the incidents of the journey, the purchase of Sally, and the reproof of the minister, had aroused his slumbering conscience, and called forth all that was generous in his nature; and he was resolved not to part with his negroes except to their advantage as well as his own. So, instead of selling them at public auction, he sent privately to those whom he thought likely to buy and to prove good masters, and invited them to come and inspect the “lot” on his own premises. And now he realized, as he had never done before, the horrors of that institution which he had been helping to maintain. It began to be a fearful thing to him to have the destiny of human beings in his hands. The levity with which the subject was treated was painful to him, and the oaths and coarse jokes of the buyers grated upon his ears. And thus it came to pass, that although every day was increasing his financial difficulties, weeks ran into months, and only five men and two children out of the company were sold.

Sally's position was one of comparative comfort. Her master and mistress treated her with uniform kindness and respect; and sweet Bessie always had a smile for “Aunty,” as she called her. The burden had not gone from her heart, but she had grown calm; and with her keen eye she looked around and calculated the chances of her future. She had seen more than one family's pecuniary ruin, and the disaster it occasioned, and she foresaw that this would be her new master's fate, so she took her present place much as a traveler across a burning desert would take a little oasis which he know he must shortly leave for the pathless sand. She remembered her husband's promise to come to her if she would send for him, and watched narrowly to know if it were best. She saw that slavery there was, in some respects, a different thing from what even her experience had made it in Carolina. The ties of affection and mutual dependence which at home often bound master and slaves together, seemed there no where to exist, but to give place to a forced and cheerless servitude; above all, she noticed that free negroes were always spoken of and treated with contempt. So, bitter as was the alternative, she resolved to send word to her husband to remain in Fayetteville, where he was known, and where he could at least earn a comfortable and independent living. It was the close of a bright day in winter. Sally's work was done, and she was sitting before the kitchen fire, as she always sat now when not employed, in a kind of dream or stupor, hopeless, but uncomplaining. Suddenly the door opened, and Bessie entered with a beaming face.

Oh, Aunty! I've got something to tell you. There's been a trader from Mobile here to see father, to-day, and there was one of your nice pound-cakes on the dinner table; and he said to mamma, ‘Why, where did you get such a cook, Mrs. Leland?” Then father told him about you, and when he had done, the man said you was just such a cook as he wanted to take down to Mobile, and that he'd give six hundred dollars for you. But my father said he wouldn't sell you, for he meant to have your bones laid on the same plantation with his; and I was so glad, Aunty, I ran out to tell you. What were you thinking about when I came in here?”

“Bless you, chile, you's very good to me. I was thinkin' 'bout my husband 'way back in Car'lina. I promised to send him word 'bout comin' down here, but 'pears like dis ain't no place for him. I's bid far'well to him an' all de chil'n, an' now 'pears like dey'd better leave me 'lone. If I could only get a letter writ to him!”

“Why, Aunty, I can write you a letter. I've written three all alone; two to my teacher, Miss Martin, she's gone to Mississippi, now, and one to my grand'ma in Tennessee. I'll go right and ask my father for some paper and his pen.”

In a few minutes she returned, and, sitting down, wrote, with great care, a few lines, to Sally's dictation, directing the note to “Lewis Beggs, Fayetteville, North Carolina.”

“There, now! Isn't that nice? I'll ask my father to take it to the postoffice the next time he goes over there. Do n't you want me to write another to your little boy down in Claiborne?”

“Oh, Miss Bessie, I dunno whar he is. He was a peart little thing! Is Claiborne a great ways off?”

“I don't know. It's somewhere by Mobile, aint it? When my father goes down there again, I'll ask him to take you and me, and then we can find out his master and see him. If I was only a grown up woman, I'd send for your husband and all your children, and you should live in my house and have good times.”

“De Lord bless ye, honey! Dere aint no more good times for me nowhar!” and Sally relapsed into her melancholy silence, while Bessie, sad and uncertain what to do, stole out of the kitchen.

A few days after this, Sally was called to the sitting-room by her master. “There, Sally,” said he, “Here's one of your old Fayetteville neighbors.”

Sally looked up and saw before her Mr. Wayne, a gentleman who had often purchased cakes and coffee at her stall, but had been some months absent from Fayetteville, and had not heard of her sale.

“Why, Sally!” he exclaimed, “I'm astonished to see you down here. Where's your husband?”

“Oh, mas'r Wayne, it does my heart good to see ye! He's back in Car'lina. 'Pears like dat's do best place for him. I jes' sent him a letter to stay whar he is.”

“That's right. Upon my word,” turning to Leland, “this is too bad. There wasn't a working woman in Fayetteville doing as well as she was. If I could afford it, I'd take her back again. Sally, do you want to send any word home?”

“Thank'ee, mas'r Wayne. Will ye please to tell Lewis, dat 'taint because I don't love him dat I sent him de letter, but 'cause I knows he's better off whar he is; an' if ye see Isaac an' Daniel, tell 'em their mother never forgets em, never. Oh, mas'r Wayne, dere's one thing more,” and the tears ran down her sunken cheeks, “'pears like I's lost de Lord in my troubles. Will ye go to de meetin' sometime Sunday afternoon, an' ask my ole friends to pray for me? I's parted with my home an' my husband, an' my chil'en, but I mus' hold on to de Lord!”

Shaking her hand, and promising faithfully to deliver her messages, Mr. Wayne set out for Fayetteville. One morning, when he had accomplished about half the journey, as he was riding leisurely along through the forest, he saw approaching him, on foot, a negro, with a bundle slung over his shoulder. As he came nearer, he was surprised to see that it was Sally's husband.

“Why, Beggs,” he exclaimed, “is that you? I saw Sally, down in Alabama, and she told me she had sent you a letter not to come there, because she know you was better off where you were. I tell you the black folks don't fare as well down south as they do in our quarters; and as for the free negroes they hate 'em. I'm sorry for you—there are not many such women as Sally, but my advice to you is, to turn round and go home, and be contented.”

Poor Lewis! Almost heart-broken after Sally's departure, he had resolved to search of her, come what would, and had gone thus far on the toilsome journey when this intelligence reached him. Despairingly, he retraced his steps, and after many weeks reached Fayetteville, thin and feeble. He had never possessed much energy of character and now, having no motive for sobriety and industry he became a confirmed drunkard, and in a short time died miserably, and was buried in a pauper's grave. It was years afterward before Sally heard of his melancholy fate.

So saying, he led the way into the parlor and asked his wife to send for Sally, upon some pretext, that Mr. Cone might see her. One of the young negroes was dispatched for Sally, who soon appeared. Her mistress detained her for several minutes, giving her directions about her work. It was an unusual thing; and, looking up, she saw Mrs. Leland's embarrassment, and Mr. Cone's eager gaze, and at once the truth flashed upon her mind.

“Oh, mas'r!” she exclaimed in a voice of agony, “Is I sold? Ye told me I should live an' die with ye.”

“Sally, God knows my heart, I meant you should; but I've lost every thing I own in the world, and if I don't sell you, the sheriff will.”

“Has it come to dat, mas'r? Well, de Lord's will be done!”

She turned away, but in a moment came back again with streaming eyes. “Oh, mas'r! I promised my ole mother dat I'd look after Charlotte, like she was one o' my own chil'en. 'Pears like I could bar it better if ye'd sell her with me.”

“Yes, Cone,” said Leland, “she was the girl you saw by the kitchen, when we came in. She's young and likely, and if you'll take her, you shall have her at a bargain, for Sally's sake.”

After a little conversation, Mr. Cone agreed to purchase them both, and it was arranged that he should send a man for them the next morning.

It was evening, and Sally sat, as usual, by the kitchen fire, thinking of the change which awaited her, and wondering what dreadful sin she had committed, that the Lord sent her such afflictions. She -was like a plant rudely torn from its native earth, and set in strange soil, where it has hardly begun to send forth a few nourishing roots below, and to expand a few leaf-buds above, ere it is removed to a new parterre. She longed for little Bessie's sympathy, but she had gone to her grandmother's, in Tennessee. Charlotte was with her, but she was too young and inexperienced to anticipate the future with much anxiety. She wished she could pray, as she once had done, but her trust and peace of mind were gone. The embers had grown dim, and she rose to lie down to sleep for the last time in that familiar room, when the door swung open, and, looking up, she saw her master enter, pale and dejected.

“Sally,” said he, “you don't feel worse about this than I do. God forgive me for ever taking you away from Carolina.”

“Oh! mas'r, 't want you, 't was de Lord dat did it, an' I must be willin' to bar whatever He sends.”

“Will you forgive me, Sally, for bringing you to so much trouble?”

“I'se nothin' to forgive, mas'r, you'se been very good to me. Don't be grievin' about it, it's de Lord's will.”

“Good night, Sally;” and he extended his hand. “Good night, you've taught me more than all the ministers.”

“God bless you, mas'r! good night.”

Early the next morning Sally and Charlotte were on their way to their new home. They rode in a sort of lumber-wagon, which carried also their baggage. A few miles through the forest, and they came in sight of Mr. Cone's plantation. He had begun here as a poor man, but was year by year adding lands and servants to his estate. He still dwelt in a log-house, with the simplest furniture and conveniences, while his negroes were lodged in ruder cabins around him. His family consisted of his wife and four sons. Mrs. Cone was a woman of great energy of character, but ignorant and narrow-minded. She had seen little of society, and her wardrobe at this time, was less valuable than Sally's, but she was ambitious of wealth and position, and envious of any one who surpassed her. She received the new-comers with a kind of coldness and severity, which made Sally feel that she would find in her the exacting mistress, rather than the sympathizing friend. Sally had never been more utterly wretched than when she lay down that night. A dreadful home-sickness, which she had not felt with the Lelands, weighed upon her heart. Spring was coming on. The leaf-buds were swelling, the woods were full of singing birds, and the winds were soft and balmy; but as she looked out in the moonlight upon the log-cabins, and the newly-cleared fields, and the broad forests beyond them, she sighed for the comely streets of Fayetteville, and was only oppressed by the untamed loveliness of Alabama.

She had been purchased for a seamstress, and the next morning early her mistress brought her a shirt to make; but she had had so much physical and mental suffering since her old sewing days in Carolina, that she had quite lost her former skill. Fearful of reproof, she tried to fit the pieces together, but her hands trembled, and she was so weak and bewildered that she gave up in despair. Her mistress was watching her, and after a few minutes she saw her go to the door and beckon to her husband, who was standing without.

“Just come in here, Mr. Cone,” said she, “Leland has cheated you. You bought Sally for a seamstress, and she can't even make a shirt.”

“Oh! missus,” said Sally, “'pears like I'se forgot all I know. Dere wasn't no woman o' my color could make shirts, an' pantaloons, an' dresses, better dan I, but 'pears like I'se lost my senses.”

“It's doubtful if you ever had any,” said Mrs. Cone, in an angry voice.

“Come, come, wife,” said her husband, “perhaps Sally'll do better after a while. There's other work enough; the garden wants hoeing and weeding—let her come out doors.”

The shirt was laid aside, and Sally, glad to escape from her mistress' eye, followed her master to the garden. Mr. Cone was preparing to build a frame house, and stumps were to be torn up, and brushwood was to be cleared away, and the ground to be leveled about the place. At all this Sally worked for the next three months, gradually gaining strength of body in the open air, but with the same sickness and despair at heart. Perhaps it was well for her that she had daily tasks to perform, so that her thoughts in working hours were necessarily occupied, but when night came, the memory of her griefs came with it. “Oh,” said she, “I allers cried myself to sleep in dem days, an' dreamed all night 'bout de ole home an' de chil'en.”

Mrs. Cone's cook was “Aunt Eve,” an old woman who had had quite a fame in the kitchen in her younger days, and in consequence had grown very vain and tenacious of her position. She was now getting old and incompetent. Her mistress was much dissatisfied, and hardly a meal passed without complaints on her part, and resolves to make a change. One day, when some articles of food came on to the table wholly spoiled, and Mrs. Cone was questioning, as usual, what she should do, her husband said, “Why don't you try Sally? she's used to cooking.”

“I never thought of it. I've had no patience with her since she spoiled that shirt. She looks so solemn, and makes herself so smart in her calico dress Sundays, that I don't take to her much.”

“Well, you 'd better try her. Eve's rules are good enough, and she can show her how.”

So Sally was placed in the kitchen to do the cooking according to Eve's directions. The old woman regarded it as an infringement upon her rights, and revenged herself by treating Sally in the most capricious and provoking manner, Sometimes she would refuse to tell her what she asked—sometimes she would give her wrong measures, and so it came to pass that Sally's cooking was even less satisfactory than Eve's. “Dis made missis angry,” said Sally, “an' she'd come in de kitch'en an' scold me, an' crack me over de head, an' den Eve would be glad, an' wouldn't tell me nothin', an' 'peared like I did worse all de time. Oh, how I cried every night, an' wished I could die 'fore de next mornin.' I thought then sure de Lord had cast me off. I didn't take no pains to look nice, like I used to, nor to have my room neat. I didn't care for nothin.' One night when I sot a crying, Eliza Freeman—she married masr's nephew—she come to my cabin, an' says she, “Sally, I'm going to give you some pieces of calico to make you a bedspread, and I advise you to rouse yourself up, and try to be cheerful. Lay down North Carolina awl take up Alabama; if you don't you'll have a poor miserable time of it, anyway.” Well arter she went out, I pondered on it, an' I thought p'raps I was to blame to grieve so, and p'raps de Lord hadn't forsook me, more'n I'd forsook de Lord an' I made up my mind, with His help, to try an' bar de cross, in' begin new from dat hour to serve Him. So I got up an' made de bed, and clar'd up de room, an' den I knelt down an' prayed to de Lord to be with me, an' never leave me any more. An' 'peared like He heard me, an' come down an' stood by me, an' said ‘Sally, I will.’ An' den I felt happy for de first time since I left my ole home.

“The next mornin' missis sent for me, an' says she, ‘Sally, how is it you don't make things to suit me any better?’ An' says I, ‘I dunno, missis. I tries hard enough to do jes' like Eve tells me.’

Poor soul! Just as she had begun to hope for more peaceful days, this new affliction came upon her. But she had resolved, come what would, that she would never doubt or distrust her God again, and now, as she plunged into the darkest recesses of the swamp, with her back all bleeding from its wounds, she poured out her whole soul to Him in earnest prayer for comfort and direction.

It was yet early morning. The trees were dripping like rain with dews of the night. The magnolia, the dogwood, and the wild jessamine, the honeysuckle, and a thousand other flowers, made the air heavy with fragrance; and strange-looking poisonous vines, with brilliant orange flowers, clambered from tree to tree, and almost wove the branches together. Sally sought the most secluded spot, and, sitting, down, leaned for support against the trunk of a tree, In the distance she heard the deep baying of the dogs and the occasional call of her pursuers, but as they were going in an opposite direction, the sounds at length died away, and only the songs of birds and the rustle of leaves awoke the silence. She was in such an agony of pain that she could not think clearly, and so she lay in a kind of stupor, while the hot hours of noon went by. The dimness of twilight was setting upon the swamp when she roused herself and began to reflect upon her condition. She could not hope to remain long concealed, and even if she could, she had no means of sustaining life; she was conscious of her innocence, and she had faith that God would protect her, and so she resolved to find her way back to her master, But she was quite bewildered. She knew not which way to take to reach the open country. Just then she heard the tinkling of a bell, and looking up, she saw a horse a little distance from her. The bell was suspended from his neck, and he had evidently strayed away from pasture. The thought struck her that by following him she might find her way to the road and so she commenced driving him, but taking care to let him go in the direction he chose. A little distance, and the firm ground was gained, and then a path which led to the highway. She was so stiff and sore from her wounds that it was with difficulty she could move, and when she came to a little brook, she stooped down and bathed her back in the cool water, and wetting her handkerchief that she wore, pinned it again over her shoulders. The day had been intensely warm, and now the thunder began to mutter in the sky, and the big drops of rain began to fall, and soon there was a drenching shower. But the horse went on and Sally followed, till at length they came to a small house on the road side. Hearing the bell, the occupant, a white man, came out and secured the horse, and seeing Sally, asked her where she came from. She dared not tell him the truth, and so said that mas'r Cone had sent for her to come and do some sewing at his house, but that in trying to go there she had lost her way. “Why,” said the man, “you're ten miles out of your course, but you can stay in the barn here to-night, and to-morrow morning I'll put you in the right road.” So she went into the barn, thankful for any shelter, but her back was so bruised and mangled that she could not lie down. All that weary night she sat up, tormented by pain, and waiting with fearful anticipation until the dawn of day.

True to his word, in the morning the man called her, and, taking her into an open wagon, drove for several miles in an easterly direction, and then, stopping whore two roads met, he helped her to dismount, saying, “This is Mr. Johnson's plantation, and the next is Mr. Cones's. Follow your right-hand road, and three miles will take you there.” Sally thanked him from her heart, and he rode away.

Among the slaves on Mr. Johnson's plantation, was an old man called “Uncle Joe,” who was famous with the negroes for his kindness and tact when any one of them was in trouble. Sally had often heard of him, and to his cabin, which stood a little apart from the rest, she now directed her steps. He was at home, for on account of his age he was excused from much active labor. Sally told him her story without reserve, and asked him what she had best do. He gave her some food, of which she was greatly in need, and advised her to remain in his cabin for the day, and at night to make her way toward home. His wife dressed her wounds, and did all that sympathy could do to inspire her with courage. They were godly people— this aged slave couple; they had seen much of sorrow, but through the Lord they had triumphed over all. Sally took sweet counsel with them of the things of heaven, and before they parted they prayed together, and then sung one of those hymns, full of repetition, so meaningless when written, but so eloquent to the sensitive negro heart when sung: “Oh, when I'm in trouble here,Lord, when I'm in trouble here,Give me Jesus! Give me Jesus!You who will may have dis world—Give me Jesus!“Oh, when I've an hour of peace,Lord, when I've an hour of peace,Give me Jesus! Give me Jesus!He's the only friend I want,Give me Jesus!“Oh, when I'm a-going to die,Lord, when I'm a-going to die,Give me Jesus! Give me Jesus!Over Jordan glad to go,Give me Jesus!”

“To be sure! to be sure! When'll ye be gwine back?”

“I 'specs de boat'll go to-morrow mornin'. We run smash 'gin anoder boat dis arternoon, an' we's jes' waitin' till dey can 'pair her. Dat's de way I come to be here.”

“Would ye take a little bundle for me to Mary Ann?”

“Sartain I will, an' I'll go 'long wid ye now an' get it.”

The interest of the party was all over to Sally, so getting up quietly she went out.

Among Mr. Cone's servants was a boy about fifteen years of age, called Nero, who had always manifested for Sally the affection of a son. He was remarkably sprightly and intelligent, and, secretly, getting one idea here, and another there, he had taught himself to read with a good degree of ease, and to write a tolerably fair hand. Sally's plan was to get him to write a letter for her, so she beckoned to him, and, taking him aside, told him what she wanted. He was delighted to do it for her, and the three were soon on their way to Mr. Cone's. Arrived at her cabin, Sally kindled a little blaze on the hearth, while Nero produced from his store a pen and ink, and a small piece of paper, and wrote the letter to her dictation. It suddenly occurred to her that at Mary Ann might have forgotten her, or would not feel sure that she had written the letter. What proof could she give her?

When her mother came to bid her good-by at the time she left Fayetteville, she had given Sally a small plaid shawl, which their old mistress Williams, the deaf and dumb lady, was accustomed to throw over her shoulders when she first rose in the morning, and which she had presented to Sally's mother. It was a singular-looking shawl, and she knew Mary Ann would remember it, and that it would serve to establish the identity of both. So she put it into a little parcel with the letter, and asked the boatman to give it to her cousin, and to return the shawl again to her, which he promised to do.

When he had gone, Sally lay down and tried to sleep, but a thousand thoughts were in her mind. Hopes and desires which had slumbered for twenty years waked to life. Her children, her friends, her early home, came back in memory, and the old home-sickness and longing filled her heart. She began to wonder if she could not go to Mobile and see her cousin with her own eyes, and resolved that she would speak to her mistress about it on the morrow, and so thinking, she fell asleep.

When morning came, she thought it wisest to delay speaking to her mistress until she had actually heard from her cousin, and so she waited anxiously till the “Magnolia” should return, and the boatman bring her an answer to her letter: and every day she prayed that, if it was God's will, she might not be disappointed. Two weeks passed, during which she heard nothing, and she had almost given up hope; but one night, about nine o'clock, as she sat half asleep by the fire, she was roused by a tapping at her door, and, opening it, there stood Daniel, the boatman, with a bundle and a letter from Mary Ann. Neither of them could read it, so Sally stole softly out for Nero. He was as pleased as she was to find that an answer had really been received. It was in Mary Ann's own unpraticed hand, and it was a long time before Nero could decipher it. It was cordial letter, expressing great joy that Sally was alive, and, too wonderful for belief, telling her that her son Isaac had some years before been in Mobile with his master; that he had sought out his cousin Mary Ann, and inquired earnestly of her for his mother; and that since then he had written her that he had purchased his freedom and was a Methodist minister at the North!

Sally was quite overcome by this sudden and joyful news. Again and again she would have the letter read to her. She would hardly have believed its words had not the shawl been returned with it, with the message that she remembered the way their old mistress used to pin it on, and had not her cousin sent her also a new calico dress. It was like that older surprise when they told Jacob, saying,

“Joseph is yet alive, and he is governor over all the land of Egypt. And Jacob's heart fainted, for he believed them not. And they told him all the words of Joseph which he had said unto them; and when he saw the wagons which Joseph had sent to carry him, the spirit of Jacob, their father, revived, and he said, ‘It is enough; Joseph, my son, is yet alive; I will go and see him before I die!’”

When Daniel and Nero had left the cabin, and Sally was alone, she burst into tears of joy, and falling on her knees, thanked God for His great mercy, and consecrated herself anew to Him. That her son was living, was happiness enough—that he was a free man and a minister, quite outran her conceptions of good.

There was nothing objectionable in her cousin's letter, so the next morning she carried it to her mistress, and while she read it, she said to her in a trembling tone,

“Please missis, if you or Miss Eliza, traveled on de boat as de ladies do, an' would take me with you down to Mobile, I should so like to see Mary Ann!”

“No, Sally, I never travel.”

“Well, 'pears like, if you 'd let me go some time?”

“No, Sally, you can just give up thinking any thing more about it—it's altogether too far from home.”

Sally took the letter, upon which no comment was made, and put it safely by; but sleeping or waking, the thought of it was ever present with her. “A few weeks after this,” to use her own words, “I was a-getting supper, an' mas'r called me, an' I was scared, for I didn't know what was de matter. I tried to think if I had done anything, but thinks I, ‘you've got to go,’ for mas'r was one of de men, if he told you he'd whip you, he would. Well, I went in an' stood by his side, an' he had a paper in his hand, an' says he,

“Sally, whar'd you live?”

“Near Fayetteville, on Haymount Hill,” says I.

“Who were your neighbors?”

So I told him.

“What was your husband's name, and what was he sold for?”

So I told him that, an' then says he,

“Sally, here's a letter from your son Isaac, sure!”

Well, I could hardly believe it; but says he,

“Sally, he wants to buy you. Now you've paid for yourself many times over, and if you can get your mistress to give you up, you know you belong to her, I'm willing.”

So I went right and spoke to mistress about it, an' says she,

“Sally, it's not my mind any way,” an' then she'd have nothing more said about it, only she was dreadful cross to me. Isaac kept writin' to mas'r an' wanted me to tell him 'bout things dat happened when he was a boy, an' when I did, he wrote back dat he know'd 't was his mother. Missis whipped me more'n ever cause she thought I'd feel kinder independent 'bout Isaac's wantin' to buy me. I was allers thinkin' 'bout it, but I didn't dare let missis know, an' when she spoke 'bout Isaac, I'd say,

“Poor follow! he wants to see his mother, but I guess he never will.”

Mas'r was all de time tryin' to coax missis to give me up. One day we had company to dinner, an' missis was very happy with her chil'n round her, an' mas'r asked her 'fore all de gentlemen, if she didn't pity Sally when she wanted to see her son. I knew she'd be mad, so I got out of the room as quick as I could, I was waitin' on de table, and prayed de Lord to soften her heart. Sometimes I gin up altogether. It was a consolation to me to think about de grave, an' I thought if my son didn't get me, I'd be there to rise with 'em in the mornin'.

“Well, Nero! I knows she'll be glad to see ye. De Lord knows we's all sorry 'nuff to have her go, but we couldn't 'spect her to stay when her son's paid de money for her. Oh, dear! dere was my Sam dat dey whipped to death 'cause he would try to run away. If he'd a lived, he'd a been jes' like Isaac. Oh dear, dear!”—and the poor creature went to her cabin, and Nero tapped softly at Sally's door.

“Bless de Lord! Nero,” said she, as she opened it, “I thought I should go away without seein' ye.”

“Oh, Sally! 'pears like I can't have ye go noways. Dey sold me away from my mother, an' now dere's nobody dat cares for me but you.”

“Don't take on so, Nero. I's sorry to leave ye; but de Lord 's in Alabama jes' as much as whar I'm agoin'. You's been very good to me, an' I never shall forget ye.”

“Sally, I don't want to live here, I want to be free. When I think about it, 'pears like I can't stay here another day. Sometimes I almost conclude to run away, but dere ain't much chance for dat.”

“Oh!” says she, “when I ain't doin' nothin' I's all de time thinkin' on 'em down dere in Alabama. Poor creeters! dey wants to be free, an' dey can't. I feel so bad for 'em! 'Pears like I mus' be busy to keep dese yer thoughts out 'o my head.”

But Isaac thinks his mother has labored long enough, and is not willing she should leave his home. She seems entirely happy in his family, and does every thing in her power to contribute to the household comfort, and, in return, all try to make her life pleasant. She makes a great pet of Isaac's youngest child, a little girl, three years old, who, she thinks, resembles the little Lewis that was sold from her at Fayetteville. One day a lady called to see Sally, and, going into the house, saw only this little child.

“Where's your grandma?” said she.

“O I 'spose she's singin' 'bout her Jesus,” was the answer. When Sally entered, the lady began to talk to her about her life, and, merely to see what reply she would make, asked her if all that was published about her in the papers was true.

“Oh!” said she, “every word on 't—every word on't! When dey reads it to me, it makes me feel sick, it brings back de ole times so. Den I thinks so much 'bout all dem I's lef' behind. I wish dey was free. I do so! I haint forgot 'em, none of 'em, nor poor mas'r nor missis.”

“I suppose you enjoy it very much to have your time to yourself?” said the lady.

“Yes, indeed! 'pears like it is so nice to lie a-bed in de mornin jes' as long as I please. I use to think about it in Alabama, an' wonder if de time ever'd come when I should'nt have to get up soon as de day broke.”

Sally never goes from home without her “free papers,” lest in some way her dearly prized liberty should be endangered. She has made many visits in Detroit and the vicinity, and been received and treated with kind attention by those who knew her history. She greatly enjoys hearing her son preach on the Sabbath, and is interested in all he is doing, and desires to help him. Uniformly cheerful, she looks at her mercies rather than her trials. She knows not whether her first husband is living or dead. She has never heard a word from her little Lewis, since the trader told her of his having been sold at Claiborne. When she last heard of her son Daniel, he was in jail in Virginia, having escaped from a cruel master in North Carolina, and fled toward the North, and been taken up and imprisoned as a runaway slave. She prays for them all, but she looks at Isaac and is happy.

In every affliction she has trusted the Lord, and felt that He could turn her sorrows to blessings. Truly, to her the CROSS has been the WAY OF FREEDOM.