old woman gazed on me with astonishment.
My behaviour was so utterly incomprehensible
to them. To ask pardon of a slave was an
idea beyond the limit of their thoughts. And
even then as I knelt there, with the sense of my
own wickedness full upon me, I could scarcely
bring myself to believe that I was praying
forgiveness of a being who partook to the full of
my own humanity!

It was only when I told the girl I had
discovered that she had spoken the truth—that I
knew that I was the daughter of a slave—it was
only then that their senses were aroused; fear
was strongly visible on their countenances; the
girl started forward and vehemently contradicted
me. No, no! I was Mrs. Duncan's child, she
cried, and the perspiration stood out on her
brow; she piteously implored me to leave her,
lest she should be again punished, owing to my
having come to the hut.

I assured them both, again and again, that
they had no occasion for fear, in speaking about
the truth. The old woman then told me that
before I was brought home, my father had given
the strictest injunctions, enforced with stern
threats, to everybody on the plantation, that not
a word should ever be breathed to me concerning
my birth; and that it was to show his
determination in the matter that he had made
such a severe example of the poor girl.

Stronger even than my bitter feelings of
remorse for the suffering I had caused, was the
anxious desire which possessed me to hear the
account of my real mother—my own mother,
notwithstanding her misery and degradation and
shame. At first the old woman would not speak.
I swore not to reveal a word of her statement;
in my passionate eagerness, I threatened,
coaxed, bribed her. At last I forced the story
bit by bit from her most unwilling tongue.

She had nursed my mother when she died,
and had nursed me when I was born. To the
best of her recollection, my mother had died
where the girl was then lying before my eyes,
and I too had been bom in that very hut.

"How did she die?" I inquired eagerly.
And then I became so nervously fearful lest
she should in any degree conceal the truth from
me, that by force of old habit I threatened her
with the most severe chastisement if I should
ever find that she had deceived me one iota.

But my hasty threat brought punishment on
my own head, for when I repeated my question,
the woman looked significantly towards the
girl. Then came the frightful conviction that
my mother herself had suffered the very pain I
had so often been the means of inflicting. On
my knees I prayed the old woman's forgiveness
for my threat, and I poured all the money I had
in my purse, into her lap.

My mother died of a broken heart, the woman
said. She had been sold away from her children.
As far as I could understand the account, she
had at first been treated with degrading kindness
and indulgence, but nothing could drive a
cloud of past love from her brow, and in spite
of her beauty she grew wearisome.

"But when I was born?" I asked anxiously.
"Was she happier then—did she forget the past
a little, in her love for me?"

In the woman's answer a curse seemed to
fall on my head. I had never been blessed with
a mother's smile. I had been nursed with
hatred on her bosom; my very life had been
saved out of her hands! And so she had lain
down to die, lying where that beaten girl was
then lying. I kissed the girl in pity for her
sufferings; my tears fell wet upon her face; but
every kiss seemed to bring me nearer to my
dead mother, and to all her sorrow and all her
shame.

If I had been left to myself I should not
have returned home that night, but the old
woman, partly by force, partly by persuasion, led
me up to the entrance of the house.

I could not endure the thought of meeting my
father, and I stole on tiptoe past the room
where he and Abel were sitting. My father
must have seen the conflict of that night
written on my face when he met me the next
morning. I believe his heart was moved with
pity, for he came forward to kiss me; but I
involuntarily shrank from him before his lips
touched mine. An irresistible influence seemed
to drag me away.

He called me to him, but I had no power to
move.

Then his indignation was excited; he
upbraided me for my ingratitude; true, I had
discovered the secret of my birth, though he had
done all in his power to hide it from me; but
yet the knowledge of my origin ought only to
have increased my affection and gratitude. He
reminded me that I had been treated as the
daughter of the house, though my mother was
a slave. All that education could do, had been
done for me; but he feared it was only too
true that there was some radical perversion in
natures such as mine, which unfitted them for
love.

O! It was intolerable anguish to hear such
words from his lips, and to feel, as I did then
feel, that they were true.

He finally told me with great sternness
that although I was free, free beyond all
question or doubt, yet my future destiny
depended on my own behaviour. Whether I gave
him my heart or not—he had once looked for a
daughter to solace his old age, but that hope
was gone—he would at least have a return for
the money spent upon me. I should amuse
him, read and play to him as heretofore, and
arrange the household affairs; I should suffer
for it if I failed.

Abel entirely usurped my place in my father's
heart. The affection and indulgence which had
been mine, were lavished upon him. I had
stood between him and his hope, as nearest
lawful heir, of inheriting my father's wealth;
there was no longer any danger that I should
spoil his prospects.

He still kept up the show of treating me with
great outward respect: taking care, however,
that the crushing thought of my degradation