brought up in the paths of religion and virtue.
I had been associated, as far as possible, with
my father's own friends and connexions. I
had been treated with the utmost affection and
regard. I ought to humble myself to my father's
will, and to strive to cast out the evil pride
which hardened my heart. By God's grace I
might hope to do it; but I must make earnest
effort, using frequent prayer.

That interview with Mr. Graham only added
to my despair. I had sought consolation of one
for whom I felt the greatest reverence and
respect; I had sought consolation where consolation
may be most surely found—in religious
converse and advice; but his words and love utterly
failed to alleviate the sorrow of my heart. I
little imagined at that time, that what I looked
upon with the utmost misery as being the dark
depravity of my own heart, was an intuitive
sense of God's justice in rebellion against man's
false principle and practice. My heart could
not be humbled by prayer, but it was humbled
by the endurance of ignominy. All pride was
cast out of me at last. My cheek no longer
flushed at the vile, yet cleverly hidden, insinuations
of Abel. I had lost all sense of degradation
in a blow from my father. I was callous to
all affronts from the visitors who now frequented
my father's house for Abel's pleasure and
amusement.

Shut out from earthly hope and heavenly con-
solation, I felt that I was gradually sinking to
the level of the wretched beings around me. My
mother had claimed me as her own—the
inheritor of her nature and her degradation. I
suppose it could only have been a question of time
how long my bodily strength would have endured
this fearful conflict of feeling. The end came
at last.

My father was taken dangerously ill. It was
my duty to nurse him; and then, God be
thanked! I experienced a gleam of relief. I
could love him with some of my old love when
he was in pain, for those social ties which had
estranged me from him were lost in the sick-
room. There seemed, in some strange way, to
be a bond of union, arising from his sufferings,
which bound him to my dead mother and
myself. Alas! it was but a slender link.

The hasty vehemence of health and a passionate
disposition left him now; he became very
mild in his manner, thoughtful beyond his wont,
and his thoughts turned heavenward. Mr. Graham
frequently came to visit him, reading and
conversing on religious matters.

My father one day, when we chanced to be
alone, gave me his keys, and bade me get the
miniature from his desk. He held it awhile
feebly in his hands, gazing fondly upon it, and
then made me fasten it by a ribbon round his
neck. From that period his thoughts, with few
intermissions, centred in the recollections of
his wife. Her name was always on his lips,
uttered with terms of endearment. All his hope
was to meet her again, and be with her in heaven.
Not one word, through all this, not one
thought, of my mother! I used to sit at his
bedside, my heart ready to burst, hoping and
praying that the remembrance of the shameful
past might rise up in his mind. They told me
that the slightest excitement might be fatal to
him, so my tongue was bound to silence.

One night my father desired to be left alone
with Mr. Graham. I was told to leave the
room; but I stole back, crouching behind a
curtain. There was something still on his mind
which troubled him. It had no reference to my
mother. Mr. Graham cheered him with Christian
hope and consolation. I could endure it
no longer. I arose from my hiding-place and
stood before them,

"My mother!" I exclaimed; "has he prayed
forgiveness for that wrong?"

Mr. Graham was startled by my presence. "He
has repented," was the reply, "of the grievous
sin which gave you existence. I have the fullest
confidence in his repentance."

"But his sin against my mother," I cried;
for some feeling I could not resist impelled me
to speak out. "Torn away from her husband and
children—sold away to infamy and shame—that
is the sin I speak of!"

"You speak," answered Mr. Graham, "as if
this act had been done to some white woman,
living in holy matrimony."

I burst into tears, and fled from the room.

They never let me see him again; they never
forgave me what I had said. Towards the end,
they told me he became very calm, lying a while
almost insensible, with the miniature clasped in
his hand. Then, with a last convulsive effort, he
stretched forth his arms, as if in the act of clasping
some form to his bosom, and crying aloud
the name he loved so well, fell back and
died.

Mary Evans took me away to her house. I
was in the greatest need of comfort and support.
The misery which appeared to arise from the
innate defect of my nature, was wrought to its
utmost pitch. I felt that I was guilty of hastening
my father's death, and that the inherent
defect of my nature was to blame for my
guilt.

Abel succeeded in all his plans. The bulk of
the property was left to him: a moderate
competency only being reserved for me. But the
loss of wealth seemed nothing, in comparison
with the dark taint upon my soul.

It was long before my bodily health sufficiently
recovered to allow of my leaving the Evanses.
I then joined Mrs. Summers in Canada, and in
her company came to this brave England. It
was only by little and little that my broken
spirit was built up; that I regained my feeling
of self-respect, of self-confidence. Free! I
might have been free, and yet have lived degraded,
even in the Northern States. At first it seemed
utterly marvellous that people in England did
not shrink from me. I could not for a long
time believe in the possibility of being loved and
treated as an equal, by the pure white race.
They used to think me cold and proud, when in
reality I was holding back in the misery of my
old sense of inferiority, and my old fear of insult.