Chapter One

About three years after Mr. Nielsen’s death, a division was made of his property. This involved a sale of everything. There were, I believe, heavy debts hanging over the estate. When the slaves were informed of the sale, they were very panic-stricken. Loud cries and lamentations arose, and my young mistresses often comforted us.

One of these young ladies, Miss Tara, frequently came and sat with us. She tried, in the most persuasive tones, to reconcile us to our destiny. I often saw tears rolling down her fair cheeks, and her lips quivering. It was obvious to all how much our fate grieved her heart.

+ + + +

When the “sale day” came, the ladies left, saying that they could not bear to watch our demise. Miss Joyce, in an outpouring of affection, bade me a tearful goodbye with a long hug and kisses all over my face; I never saw her again. We were taken to the “auction house” in town to be sold.

The “auction house” was not a building. It was a block of wooden stairs pushed up against the side of the grocery store. The stairs acted as the auction platform. The slaves were lined off in rows near the platform for inspection.

Strange men roughly seized us, examining and handling us in the same manner a butcher would a calf he was about to purchase. They bade us open our mouths and examined our teeth; felt our limbs to find out how muscular we were; made us run, walk, and jump to detect any possible lameness in our legs; and made us stoop and bend in different ways to ensure that there was no concealed rupture or wound. They spoke about our shapes and sizes as if we could no more understand them than dumb beasts!

In addition, they asked scores of questions relative to our qualifications and accomplishments. All these humiliations were submitted to without a murmur and in some instances with good-natured cheerfulness - where we liked the appearance of the proposed buyer, and fancied that he might prove a kind 'massa’. The case of Amos, a male slave stands out in my mind.

Amos had taken a fancy to a benevolent looking middle-aged gentleman, who was inspecting the “stock”, and thus used his powers of persuasion to induce the benevolent man to purchase him, with his wife, boy and girl, Molly, Israel and Sevanda. The earnestness, with which the poor fellow pressed his suit, knowing, as he did, that perhaps the happiness of his whole life depended on his success, was interesting, and the arguments he used were most pathetic.

He made no appeal to the feelings of the buyer; he rested no hope on his charity and kindness, but only strove to show how well worth his dollars were the bone and blood he was entreating him to buy.

“Look at me, Massa; am prime rice planter; sho' you won't find a better man den me; no better on de whole plantation; not a bit old yet; do mo' work den ever; do carpenter work, too, little; better buy me, Massa; I'se be good sarvant, Massa. Molly, too, my wife, Sa, fus rate rice hand; mos as good as me. Stan' out yer, Molly, and let the gen'lm'n see,” he tried to cajole the gentleman.

Molly advanced, with her hands crossed on her bosom, and mad a quick short curtsy, and stood mute, looking appealingly in the benevolent man's face. Amos spoke faster:

“Show massa yer arm Molly - good arm dat massa - she do a heap of work mo' with dat arm yet. Let good massa see yer teeth Molly - see dat massa, teeth all reg'lar, all good - she'm young gal yet. Come out yer Israel, walk aroun' an' let the gen'lm'n see how spry you be.”

Then, Amos pointed to his three-year-old girl who stood with her chubby hand to her mouth, holding on to her mother's dress, and uncertain what to make of the strange scene.

“Little Vardy's on'y a chile yet; make prime gal by-and-by. Better buy us massa, we'm fus' rate bargain" - and so on. However, the benevolent gentleman found where he could drive a closer bargain, and so bought somebody else.

Some would perhaps balk at Amos’ zeal to be sold, but he was only trying to ensure the safety of his family. He knew the only way was to capitalise on the barbarity inherent in a human being’s willingness to buy another; to own and control the life of another. The battle for control of my life ended with an amazing bid of $1800; and the people who stood by said that I had fetched a great sum for so young a slave.

+ + + +

My days being shut away under Miss Joyce’s tutelage had left me naïve and utterly clueless as to my fate. After a while, my mother came up to me, holding a wallet in her hand. The tear drops stood on her cheeks, and her whole frame was distorted with pain. She walked toward me a few steps, then stopped; and suddenly shaking her head exclaimed, “No, no. I can’t do it. I can’t do it.” I was amazed at her grief, but an indefinable fear kept me from rushing to her.

“Here, Nancy,” she said to an old Negress who stood near. “You break it to her. I can’t do it. No, it will drive me mad. Oh, heaven, that I was born to see this day!” she cried. Then she rocked her body back and forth, venting her feelings in a long, loud, piteous wail. Oh, God! That cry of grief, that sound of a breaking heart, rang in my ears for many long and painful days.

“Poor chile, you mus’ place yer trus’ in the good God above. You mus’ look to him for help. You are gwine to leave your mother now. You are to have a new home, a new master, and I hope new friends. May the Lord be with you,” Nancy explained.

So saying, Nancy suddenly broke away from me, but I saw that her wrinkled face was wet with tears.

I received this news with a whirlwind gathering in my breast. What could she mean by new friends and a new home? Surely I was to take my mother with me! No mortal power would dare to sever us. Why, I remember that when Mr. Nielsen sold the mare, her colt went with her also. Who could, who would, who dared, separate the parent from her offspring? My heart throbbed violently with grief, terror and confusion.

“Come along, gal. Come along. Gather up your duds and come with me,” said a harsh voice.

Looking up from my bewildered reverie, I beheld the man who had examined and bought me. He was a hard-looking man with scanty, grey locks floating carelessly over an amplitude of forehead; sunken blue eyes, hollowed cheeks, thin lips, and teeth much discoloured by the continued use of tobacco.
I was too startled to fully understand his words and stood gazing at him vacantly. He perceived this to be disrespectful. He raised his riding whip and brought it down with considerable force on my back. It was the first lash I had ever received out of anger. I smarted beneath the stripe*, and a cry of pain broke from my lips.

Mother sprang to me, and, clasping my quivering form in her arms, cried out to my young master, “Oh, Master Jonathan! Have mercy on me, on my child. I have served you faithfully. I nursed you; I took care of you as my own child when your mother died. I beg you now to save my child.”

She released me and went over to Master Jonathan. She sank down at his feet, while her tears fell fast. Then my poor old grandfather, Charles (commonly called Charlie), joined us. He was the “patriarch” slave, being the oldest slave in the area. His white hair, wrinkled face, and bent form, told of many a year of hard servitude. His brown eyes shined with the deep love that he had for my mother and me.

“What is it, Massa Jon? What is it Kendra be takin’ on so ‘bout? You haint drive the chile off? No...no! Young massa only playin’ trick now. Come Kay, don’ be makin’ fool of yo’sef. Young massa not gwine to sep’rate you an’ Buffy,” grandfather declared.


These words seemed to reanimate my mother, and she looked up at Master Jonathan with a grateful expression. She clasped her arms tightly around his knees, exclaiming, “Oh bless you, young master! Bless you forever, and forgive me for distrusting you. Polly told me Buffy was sold away from me...and that gemman [gentleman] struck her.”

She sobbed and caught hold of me convulsively, as if she feared that I might be taken. I looked at young master’s face. The ghastly whiteness which spread over it, the tearful sparkle of his eyes, and the strange tremor of his figure, struck me with fright. Young as I was, my first dread was for my mother. I forgot my own dilemma and mourned alone for her.

“I’ve got no time to be foolin’ longer with these niggers. Come ‘long gal. Anne, I believe you told me was her name,” my buyer said, as he turned to Master Jonathan.

Master Jonathan struck his head vehemently while my mother shrieked wildly and my grandfather sighed deeply. Tears trickled down his cheek as he exclaimed, “Here, Mr. Nest, here! Here is your bill of sale. I will refund your money. Release me from my contract.”


Heinrich Nest, whom I would come to know as “The Master”, cast Master Jonathan a contemptuous look. He chuckled and replied, “No. You must stand to your bargain. I want that gal. She is sassy, and it will do me good to thrash the devil out of her.” He turned to me and added,” Quit your snuffling or I’ll give you something to cry ‘bout!”

The Master roughly caught me by the arm and hauled me off, despite the pleas of Master Jonathan, the cries of my mother, and the feeble begging of grandfather. I looked behind and saw my mother wallowing in the dust while her frantic cries of “Save my child, save my child!” rang with fearful agony in my ears.


Master Jonathan covered his face with his hands, and grandfather reverently raised his hands to heaven, as if pleading for mercy. The sight of this anguish-stricken group filled me with a new sense of horror; and, forgetful of The Master’s presence, I burst into tears. I was stung by a fierce blow from his stout riding whip.

“See here, nigger! Ef you dar’ to give ‘nother whimper, I’ll beat the very life out ‘en yer,” The Master barked.


This terrific threat seemed to scare away every thought of caution. By a sudden and agile move, I broke loose from The Master and darted off to the sad group from which I had been ruthlessly torn. I sank down before Master Jonathan and cried out in a wild, despairing tone, “Save me, good master! Save me... kill me or hide me from that awful man! He’ll kill me!”

I seized the hem of his coat and covered my face with it to shut out the sight of The Master, whose seemingly red eyes were glaring with fury upon me. Oath after oath escaped his lips.

Mother saw him rapidly approaching to recapture me. With the noble, maternal instinct of self-sacrifice, she sprang forward and received the heavy blow of his uplifted whip. She reeled, tottered and sank, stunned, to the ground.

He struck me again and grabbed me. “Thar, take that yer yaller hussy! Cuss yer nigger hide for daring to raise this rumpus here,” he said as we strode past my mother.


“Gently, Mr. Nest, let me speak to her. Little encouragement is better than force,” Master Jonathan tried to reason with The Master.

“This is my encouragement for them,” and The Master shook his whip indignantly.

Unheeding him, Master Jonathan turned to me, saying, “Anne, come now. Be a good girl and go with this gentleman. Be an obedient girl. He will give you a kind, nice home. Sometimes he will let you come to see your mother. Here is some money for you to buy something pretty. Now go with him.”

Master Jonathan stroked my hair and tried to smile in reassurance as he delivered his farewell speech. I took the half-dollar* from Master Jonathan and reverently kissed his hand. I rejoined The Master; one look at his cold, harsh face had me resolved to go without a fuss. I could not suppress a groan when I passed the spot where my mother lay unmoving from the effects of the blow of The Master’s whip.

+ + + +

The Master bid me fetch my belongings while he spoke with the auctioneer. I quickly gathered my meagre belongings and proceeded to where The Master had told me to meet him. As I left, the remaining Nielsen slaves, old and young, gave me hearty handshakes as I passed the place where they were standing. They offered me little mementoes and keepsakes as well. One gave me a piece of ribbon, another some pins, a third presented a beautiful cotton head-tie; others gave ginger cakes, candies or coins.

Out of their little they gave abundantly; and, small as the tokens were, I knew that they had made sacrifices to give even so much. I was too deeply affected to make nay other acknowledgment than a nod of the head; for a choking thickness was gathering in my throat while a blinding mist obscured my eye.

+ + + +

I followed The Master to a red wagon with and awning of slightly soiled cotton. Standing near it, holding the horses, was an old, worn, scarred, weather-beaten negro man. He instantly took off his hat as The Master approached.

“Well, Zeke, I’ve bought this wench today,” The Master announced, shaking his whip over my head.


“Ya! Massa, she ha’ got one goot home wid yer,” Zeke proclaimed.

“Yes, she has Zeke; but the slut has been cryin’ ‘bout it! I guess I can take the fool out en her, by the time I gives her 2 or 3 swings at the whipping post.”

Zeke shook his head knowingly. He gave a forced, low, guttural laugh, by way of approval of The Master’s whipping capabilities.

“Jump in the wagon, Anne. Jump in quick! I likes to see niggers active. This’ll put the sperit [spirit] en yer.”

There was another flourish of his whip.

I got in with as much haste and ‘activity’ as I could possibly command. This appeared to please The Master, and he gave evidence of it by saying, “Well, that does pretty well. A few stripes a day, and you’ll be a valerble [valuable] slave.”

The Master got into the wagon and ordered Zeke to drive. In a state of hopeless agony, I watched as everything and everyone I knew and held dear shrink in the distance. As we travelled, The Master made coarse jokes and issued malignant threats, all dutifully answered with forced laughing and agreement by Zeke.

I was glad that Master Jonathan had given my name as “Anne”. “Anne” was my ‘proper’ name as pronounced by Miss Joyce. She had thought “Buffy” was too coarse a name for an angel such as myself. Since I refused to answer to my given name of Beth-Anne, she called me “Anne”.

“Buffy” was the embodiment of the love of and happy times spent with my family and friends at the Nielsen farm. I did not want a cruel boor such as The Master with “Buffy” upon his lips. I did not want him to taint my good memories...

Chapter Two

The family with whom I now found a home consisted of Heinrich Nest (“The Master”) and his three daughters – Darla, Harmony and Dawn. The family lived in something like “style”. They were famed for their wealth and social position throughout the neighbourhood. Their home was the paradise of homes in Stringtown, Kentucky. Travellers often paused to admire the tasteful arrangement of the grounds and the neat, artistic plan of the house.

The property was named Mercy Hall for its previous owners – the prominent Mercy Family of Virginia. Elm trees lined the drive like the Royal Guard. To the left of the drive was an enclosed pasture, and to the right was an orchard. The drive forked in three directions – to the western end of the property, to the “big house”, and to the eastern end of the property. The roads were all connected in a circle.

The western end of the property contained the majority of the outbuildings. There was a barn; a stable for The Master’s prized thoroughbred horses, a sty for the pigs, a chicken coop, the smokehouse for curing meat, the slaughterhouse, the granary, the dairy, and the icehouse. These were all connected to the western road which met the eastern road at the rear of the property.

At the rear of the property was a pond where ice would be collected during winter and stored in the icehouse. There was also a burial ground, a vegetable garden, a cabin for the blacksmith and carpenter, and a mule barn. The road separated them from the well, the wash house, the loom house, the privy, the woodshed, and the kitchen with the slave hall attached to it. These were situated immediately behind the “big house”.

The eastern end of the property contained the family’s main source of income. Here lay the tobacco and hemp barns; and the slave quarters which stood a ways off from the “big house”, close to the woods. The slave quarters were wretched hovels housing five slaves on average.

They were old, small, whitewashed, log cabins that had seen better days with no windows, no openings except for the doorway. There was a ‘chimney’ to one end of the house. The ‘chimney’ was a pile of sticks (which often caught on fire) held together by mud. The fire-place was made of clay. Any chinks in the walls or roof were stopped with wads of cotton, corn shucks* or whatever was at hand. Our ‘beds ‘were old cots or straw pallets. We sat on broken stools or old pine boxes. The houses stood in two rows with a wide street between them. The overseer’s quarters were nearby, closer to the road.

The overseer’s house was a brick cabin. It had three rooms – his bedroom, his office and his kitchen. It had numerous glass windows and a true fireplace and chimney of brick. There was a porch at the rear of the house, where the overseer, Mr. Walsh, could sit and survey the nearby slave quarters and the fields of tobacco and hemp. A thicket hid all this from the view of the traveller and drew attention to the big house.

The middle road of the drive was flanked by a primrose-lined sunken garden on both sides. It led to the “big house”- the residence of The Master. It was a large, two-story brick house with white, shuttered glass windows and a veranda at the front. The coach house was attached to the left side of the house and a long, narrow, covered walkway connected the kitchen to the “big house”. The main door was made of oak and had a beautiful gilded, scrolled knocker and led to the ground floor. The ground floor had the entrance hall, a solarium, The Master’s study, a library, a dining room, a living room and the stairs that led to the upper floor.

The upper floor contained the bedrooms of the occupants, bathrooms, a nursery and an attic. The largest bedroom belonged to The Master and had a bathroom. Miss Darla’s room had a boudoir in addition to the adjoining bathroom as did the bedrooms of Misses Harmony and Dawn. The two guest rooms shared a bathroom. The nursery was kept locked and the attic contained trunks of linens and the personal effects of the family.

The house seemed to bespeak refined minds and delicate, noble natures but the occupants were people of coarse, barbaric natures. They perpetrated acts of wickedness and diabolical cruelty without the least pang of remorse or regret. Whilst the family revelled in luxury, the slaves were denied the most ordinary necessities. The cook, who prepared the nicest dainties, the most tempting, sumptuous dishes, had to console herself with a coarse, scanty diet that would shock even a beggar.

+ + + +

I shared a cabin with Aunt Grace, the cook; a girl of about twelve named Celia (“CeeCee”), and her three siblings. Aunt Grace slept on a rickety cot and the rest of us on pallets of straw. Grace was a slender old woman whose dark, scowling countenance looked out from under a small cap of faded muslin that was perched atop her plaited, greying hair.

The night that I arrived at Mercy Hall, I slept fitfully. My mind was swarmed with thoughts of my family and friends. “Sold,” I murmured. What was it to be sold? Why was I sold? Why was I separated form my mother and friends? Who gave The Master the right to force me from my good home? Alas, I had no answers for these questions.

The next morning I was awoken by the shrill sound of a hunting horn. This was the signal for all the slaves to rise and woe unto him or her that was found missing or tardy when the roll was called! I and my fellow cabin dwellers quickly sprang up and dressed ourselves and went out into the yard.

In the yard was the overseer – Adam Walsh. He was tall, heavyset, athletic man with a piercing, chilling gaze. He stood with his whip in hand as he called out the names of all the slaves and assigned their daily tasks to them. The slaves received their orders with smiles of terror more than pleasure. He then dismissed them and looked at me fiercely.

“Come here, gal,” he commanded.

With a timid step, I obeyed.

“What are you fit for? Not much of anything, ha?” he demanded, pulling me by the ear to stand in front of him.

“Well, you are likely looking. How much work can you do?”

I stammered out something as to my willingness to do anything that was required of me. He examined my hands, and concluding from their size and quality, that I was best suited for house work. He made remain in the kitchen until after breakfast.

The kitchen was a two-room brick structure with a wide passage between both rooms and windows to draw cooling breezes. One room was used for the storage of cooking and other utensils, and the food. The other room was for food preparation. The main room had a large fireplace at one end with a long iron bar extending across it. The large pots were suspended over lit coals from this bar by means of hooks. There was also a big oven for baking as well as a long table in the middle of the room. In addition, there were a few stools and chairs strewn around the room. The slave dining hall was attached to the rear of the kitchen.

I entered the room and found two of CeeCee’s siblings begging Aunt Grace to give them a piece of hoe cake* while CeeCee at in a corner hushing her youngest sibling.

“Be off wid you, or I’ll tell Mass or de overseer,” she threatened as their solicitations became more clamorous.

This threat had power to silence the most earnest demands of the stomach. Aching hunger was far less dreaded than the lash of the overseer, Mr. Walsh. My entrance was a diversion for the children. They crowded closer to CeeCee and eyed me doubtfully.

“Who’s her?”, “Whar she come from?”, “When she gwyn away?” and such expressions escaped them in stifled tones.

“Come in, set down,” said Aunt Grace to me.

With a very uneasy feeling, I seated myself upon a broken stool to which Aunt Grace pointed. The loud blast of the horn was the signal for the slaves to suspend their labour and come to breakfast. A negro man and three negro women rushed in at the door, ravenous for their rations. I expected them to retire to the slave dining hall and eat their meal at a table there. I was surprised to learn that the dining hall had no table and was used mainly during the winter and watched as the slaves took a slice of bacon and a pone* of bread in hand and ate it standing.

At home we always took our meal at a table, our manners trained into something like the softness of humanity. There, as regularly as the Sunday dawned, were we summoned to the house to hear the Bible read, and join (though at a respectful distance) with the family in prayer. But this I subsequently learned was an unusual practice in Stringtown, and was attributed to the fact that Mr. Nielsen’s wife had been born in the State of Massachusetts. There the people were crazy and fanatical enough to believe that “niggers” were human beings with souls, who were to be treated kindly. How I longed for home!

“Well,” said the man, “I’d like to git a bit more bread.”

“You’s had yer sher,” replied Aunt Grace. “Mister Walsh ses one slice o’ meat and a pone o’ bread is to be the ‘lowance.”

“I knows it, but if thar’s any scraps left from the house table, you wimmin folks always gits it.”

“Who’s got de bes’ right? Sure, and aren’t de one who cooks it got de bes’ right to it?” asked Aunt Grace with a triumphant voice.

“Ha ha!” cried Zeke upon entering, “Here comes de brekfust leavin’s. Now who’s smartes’ shall have ‘em.”

Immediately Zeke, his comrade and the three women seized a waiter of fragments of biscuit, ham, eggs and coffee –the remains of the breakfast prepared for The Master and family.

“By gar,” cried Zeke, “I’ve got de coffee pot, and I’ll drink dis!”

Without further ceremony, he applied the spout of the coffee pot to his mouth, and, sans cream or sugar, gulped the coffee grounds. His comrade claimed the ham while two of the women held a considerable contest over a biscuit. Blows and lies passed frequently between them. Aunt Grace tried to stop them but failed.

The women stood with eyes blazing like comets, their arms twisted around each other in a very furious struggle. One of them, losing her balance, fell upon the floor and dragged the other women after her. While they rolled and wallowed in a cloud of dust, the disputed biscuit dropped and rolled away to be snatched up by Zeke, who happily devoured it. I stood all agape, looking on with amazement.

Amanda, the girl form whom the waiter had been snatched, returned to the house and made a report of the fracas. Instantly and unexpectedly, Walsh, flaming with rage, stood in the midst of the riotous group. Seizing hold of the women, he knocked them on their heads with clenched fists.

“Hold, black wretches! Come, I will give you a leetle fun. Off now to the post!”

The appeals for mercy, promises of mended ways and excuses would have touched a heart of stone, but not Walsh. He had the power to resist even the prayer of an angel. To him, the cries of human suffering and the agony of distress were the sweetest music. My heart bled when I saw the two women being led away, and I put my hands in my ears to shut out their screams that rang with a strange terror in the morning air. A look of fright was on the face of all.

“They be getting’ awful beatin’ at the post, “muttered Zeke, a sardonic smile flitted over his hard features.

It was sad to behold the depths of degradation into which this man had fallen. He could smile at the anguish of a fellow slave. Originally, his nature may have been kind and gentle, but a continuous system of brutality had so deadened his sensibilities, that he had no humanity left. For this the white man is accountable.


Poor oppressed African! Thorny and rugged is our path of life! Many a secret sigh and bleeding tear attest our cruel martyrdom. Holy men stand in splendid churches, delivering elaborate harangues mistaking the definition of servitude and impressing upon the negro to accept slavery as morally right. Serving and being a slave are very different. There is no argument to justify slavery as some moral right.


As may be supposed, I had little appetite for my breakfast, but I managed to deceive others into the belief that I had made a hearty meal. But those screams from half-starved wretches had a fatal and terrifying fascination that chased away my hunger and burned into my mind…

Chapter Three

After the breakfast was over, I received a summons to the big house. Following Amanda along the narrow walkway that connected the kitchen to the big house, I was led into the presence of the assembled household. A very strange group I thought them.

Two girls were seated at the breakfast table, “trying their fortune” (as the phrase goes) with a cup of coffee grounds and a spoon. The elder of the two was Miss Darla – a slim girl with blue eyes and blonde hair done up in frizettes*. She was not a striking beauty but possessed a somewhat arresting countenance. The other was Miss Harmony – a curvier girl with blue eyes and her blonde hair also done up in frizettes. Her beauty was more cherubic in nature.

As Miss Harmony received the magic cup from Miss Darla, she exclaimed, “La, Darla. It will only be two years until you are married,” and made a significant grimace at her father (The Master). The Master sat near the window, indulging in the luxury of a cob-pipe*. Miss Darla turned toward me and asked, “Father, is that the new girl you bought at old Nielsen’s sale?”

“Yes, that’s the gal. Does she suit you?” The Master answered.

“Yes, but dear me! How very light she is…almost white! I know she will be impudent,” Miss Darla declared.

“She has come to the wrong place for practice of that article,” suggested Miss Harmony.

“Yes, gal. You has got to mind them ‘ar wimmen,” said The Master to me, as he pointed toward his daughters.

“ Father, I do wish you would quit that vulgarism. Say girl not gal, and ladies not women,” Darla admonished him.

“Oh, I was never edjicated like you,” The Master groused.

“Educated is the word,” Miss Harmony corrected him.

“Oh, confound your dictionaries! Ever since that school-marm come out from Yankee-land, these neighbourhood gals talk so big, nobody can understand ‘em.”

+ + + +

The girls had been very well educated by a Miss Calendar, from Massachusetts, a spinster of “no particular age”. From her, the Misses Nest learned to set a great value upon correct and elegant language. She was the model and instructress of the country round, for, under her jurisdiction, nearly all the farmers’ daughters had been initiated into the mysteries of learning.

I used to frequently find odd leaves of school books, old readers, story books, novels etc, scattered about over the house. These I eagerly devoured, but I had to be very secret about it, studying by dying embers, reading by moonlight, sunrise etc. Had I been discovered, a severe punishment would have followed. Miss Darla used to say, “A literary negro is disgusting, not to be tolerated.”

Though she quarrelled with the vulgar talk and bad pronunciation of her father, he was made of too rough material to receive a polish; and though Miss Calendar had improved the minds of the girls, her efforts to soften their hearts met with no success. They were the same harsh, cold and selfish girls that she had found them. It was Darla’s boast that she had whipped more negroes than any other girl of her age. Harmony, though less severe, still had a touch of the tigress.

The saving grace of this family was Miss Dawn. She was a doe-eyed angel of mercy with silky chestnut hair, according to the slaves. Miss Dawn was away on a visit to Louisville with a maiden aunt of the deceased Mrs. Nest during the first months of my life at Mercy Hall. Though I had not met her, the slaves sang her praises so much that I felt I had known her.

+ + + +

Every evening Miss Calendar came to spend an hour or so with them. The route from the school to her boarding house wound by Mercy Hall, and the temptation to talk to the young ladies, who were emphatically the belles of the neighbourhood, was too great for resistance. This lady was of that class of females which meet in every quarter of the globe, of perfectly kind intentions, yet without the independence necessary for their open and free expression.

Bred in the North, and having from her infancy imbibed the spirit of its free institutions, in her secret soul she loathed the abomination of slavery. Every pulse of her heart cried out against it, yet with a strange compliance she lived in its midst, never once offering an objection or an argument against it. It suited her policy to laugh with the pro-slavery man at the fanaticism of the Northern Abolitionist.

With a Judas-like hypocrisy, she sold her conscience for silver; and for a mess of pottage*, bartered the noble right of free expression. ‘Twas she, base renegade for a glorious cause, who laughed loudest and repeated wholesale libels and foul aspersions upon the able defenders of abolition – noble and generous people, lofty philanthropists, who were willing, for the sake of principle, to wear the mark of social and political ostracism!

One evening when she called (as was her custom after the adjournment of school), she found, upon inquiry, that the young ladies had gone out, and would not probably be back for several hours. She looked doubtful whether she should go home or remain. I had often observed her attentively watching me, yet I could not interpret the look.

Sometimes I thought it was of deep, earnest pity. Then it appeared only an anxious curiosity; and as commiseration was a thing which I seldom met with, I tried to guard my heart against anything like hope or trust. However, on this afternoon I was struck by her strange and irresolute manner.

She turned several times as if to leave, then suddenly stopped, and, looking very earnestly at me, asked, “Did you say the girls would not return for several hours?” Upon receiving an answer in the affirmative, she hesitated a moment, and then inquired for The Master. He was also away from home, and would probably be absent for a day or two.

“Is there no white person about the place?” she asked, with some trepidation.

“No one is here but the slaves,” I replied, perhaps in a sorrowful tone, for the word “slave” always grated upon my ear.

“Well then, Anne, come and sit down near me. I want to talk with you awhile,” she told me.

This surprised me a great deal. I scarcely knew what to do. The very idea of sitting down to a conversation with a white lady seemed to me the wildest improbability. A vacant stare was the only answer I could make. Certainly, I did not dream of her being in earnest.

“Come on, Anne,” she said coaxingly.

Seeing that my amazement increased, she added, in a more persuasive tone, “Don’t be afraid. I am a friend to the coloured race.”

This seemed to me the strangest fiction – a white lady, and yet a friend to the coloured race! Inconceivable! Such condescension was unheard of! What?! She a refined woman, with snowy complexion, to stoop from her proud elevation to befriend a lowly slave? Why she could not, she dare not! Almost stupefied with amazement, I stood with my eyes intently fixed upon her.

“Come, child,” she said in a kind tone.

She placed her hand upon my shoulder and endeavoured me to sit beside her, “Look up. Be not ashamed, for I am truly your friend. Your downcast look and melancholy manner have often struck me with sorrow.”

To this I could make no reply. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth; a thick, filmy veil gathered before my sight; and there I stood like one turned to stone. Yet, upon being frequently reassured by her gentle manner and kind words, I at length controlled my emotions, and, seating myself at her feet, awaited her communication.

“Ann, you are not happy here?” she inquired.

I said nothing, but she understood my look.

“Were you happy at home?” she went on.

“I was,” I replied in a scarcely audible voice.

“Did they treat you kindly there?” she continued.

“Indeed they did; and there I had a mother, and was not lonely,” I answered quietly.

“They did not beat you?”

“No, no, they did not,” and large tears gushed from my burning eyes—for I remembered with anguish, how many a smarting blow had been given to me by Mr. Walsh, how many a cuff by The Master, and ten thousand knocks, pinches and tortures by Misses Darla and Harmony.

“Don’t weep, child,” said Miss Calendar in a soothing tone, and she laid her arm caressingly around my neck.

This kindness was too much for my fortitude, and bursting through all restraints, I gave vent to my feelings in a violent shower of tears. She wisely allowed me some time to enjoy this luxury. I at length composed myself, and begged her pardon for this seeming disrespect.

“But, ah, my dear lady, you have spoken so kindly to me that I forget myself,” I apologized.

“No apology, my child. I tell you again that I am your friend, and with me you can be perfectly free. Look upon me as a sister. Now that your excited feelings have become allayed, let me ask you - why did your master sell you?” she replied.

I explained to her that it was necessary for the equal division of the estate that some of the slaves be sold, and that I was among the number.

“A bad institution is this one of slavery. What fearful entailments of anguish! Manage it as the most humane will, or can, still it has horrible results… witness your separation from your mother. Did these thoughts never occur to you?” she lamented.

I looked surprised, but dared not tell her that often had vague doubts of the justice of slavery crossed my mind. Ah, too much I feared the lash and I answered only by a mournful look of assent.

“Anne, did you ever hear of the Abolition Society?” she asked.

I shook my head. She paused, as if doubtful of the propriety of making a disclosure; but the better principle triumphed and she said, “There is in the Northern States, an organization which devotes its energies and very life to the cause of the slave. They wish to abolish the shameful system, and make you and all your persecuted race as free and happy as the whites.”

“Does there really exist such a society? Or is it a wild fable that you tell me, for the purpose of allaying my present agony?” I asked in disbelief.

“No, child, I do not deceive you. This noble and beneficent society really lives; but it does not, I regret to say, flourish as it should,” she assured me.

“And why?” I asked, whilst a new wonder was fastening on my mind.

“Because,” she answered, “the larger portion of the whites is mean and avaricious enough to desire, for the sake of pecuniary aggrandizement, the enslavement of a race whom the forces of education and hereditary prejudice have taught them to regard as their own property.”

I did but dimly conceive her meaning. A slow light was breaking through my cloudy brain, kindling and inflaming hopes that now shine like beacons over the far waste of memory. Should I, could I, ever be free? Oh, bright and glorious dream! How it did sparkle in my soul, and cheer me through the lonely hours of bondage! This hope, this shadow of a hope, shone like a mirage far away upon the horizon of a clouded future.

Miss Calendar looked thoughtfully at me, as if watching the effect of her words; but she could not see that the seed which she had planted, perhaps carelessly, was destined to fructify and flourish through the oncoming seasons. I longed to pour out my heart to her, for she had unlocked its deepest chambers with this flicker of hope. I dared not unfold even to her the wild dreams and strange hopes which I was indulging.

At the approach of a slave nearby, I signified to Miss Calendar that it would be unsafe to prolong the conversation. She quickly departed, not, however, without reassuring me of the interest which she felt in my fate. After that, I went about my duties with a little bright hope of liberty that shone like a star through clouds.

Chapter Four

One evening, after a trip into town, I was glad to find the young ladies in such an excellent humour. It was seldom that Miss Darla, whose peculiar property I was, ever gave me a kind word; and I was surprised on this occasion to hear her say, in a somewhat gentle tone, “Well, Anne, come here. I want you to look very nice tonight, and wait on the table in style. I am expecting company.”

With a sort of half good-natured smile, she tossed an old, faded neck-ribbon to me, saying, “There is a present for you.”

I bowed low, and made a respectful acknowledgment of thanks, which she received in an unusually pleasant manner.

Immediately I began to make arrangements for supper, and to get myself in readiness. This was no small matter, as my scanty wardrobe furnished no scope for the exercise of taste. In looking over my trunk, I found a white cotton apron which could boast of many mice-bites and moth-workings; but with a needle and thread I soon managed to make it appear decent. I combed my hair as neatly as possible and tied the ribbon which Miss Darla had given me around it. I gave the finishing touch to my toilette, and then set about arranging the table.

I assorted the tea-board, spoons, cups, saucers etc; placed a nice damask napkin at each seat, and turned down the round little plates of white French china. The silver forks and ivory-handled knives were laid round the table in precise order. This done, I surveyed my work with an air of pride. Smiling complacently to myself, I proceeded to Miss Darla’s room, to request her to come and look at it, and express her opinion.

On reaching her room, I found her dressed with great care in a pink, silk dress with a rich lace berthé* and pearl ornaments. Her blonde hair was oiled until it gleamed, and the metallic polish of the French powder gave her a fresh, vibrant look.

Dropping a low curtsy, I requested her to come with me to the dining room and inspect my work. With a smile she followed, and upon examination, seemed well pleased.

“Now, Ann, if you do well in officiating, it will be well for you; but if you fail, if you make one mistake, you had better never been born, for,” and she grasped me strongly by the shoulder, “I will flay you alive. You shall ache and smart in every limb and nerve.”

Terror-stricken at this threat, I made the most earnest promises to do my best. Yet her angry manner and threatening words so unnerved me, that I was not able to go on with the work in the same spirit in which I had begun – for we all know what a paralysis fear is.

I stepped out on the balcony for some calm, and there, standing at the end of the gallery, but partially concealed by the clematis blossoms, stood Miss Darla and a tall gentleman with dark hair, leaning over the railing talking very earnestly to her. In that uncertain light I could see the flash of her eyes and the crimson glow of her cheek. She was twirling and tearing to pieces, petal by petal, a beautiful rose which she held in her hand.

Here, I thought, is happiness. This woman loves and is beloved. She has tasted that one drop which sweetens the whole cup of existence. Oh, what a thing it is to be free — free and independent, with power and privilege to go wherever you choose, with no cowardly fear, no dread of espionage, with the right to hold your head proudly aloft, and return glance for glance, word for word, without shrinking or cowering. But not many moments could I spend in thought, and well, perhaps it was good for me that duty broke short such unavailing regrets.

Hastening back to the dining room, I gave another inquiring look at the table, fearful that some article had been omitted. Satisfying myself on this point, I moved on to the kitchen, where Aunt Grace was busy frying a chicken.

“Here, child,” she exclaimed, “look in thar at them biscuits. See is they done.”

“Oh, that’s prime, browning beautiful like,” she said, as I drew from the stove a pan of nice biscuits, “and this ‘ar chicken is mighty nice. Oh, but it will make the young gemman smack his lips.”

She wiped the perspiration from her sooty brow, drew a long breath and seated herself upon a broken stool.

“Wal, this ‘ar nigger is tired. I’s bin cooking now this twelve years, and never has I had ‘mission to let my old man come to see me, or I go to see him.”

The ever present children, with eyes wide open, gathered round Aunt Grace to hear a recital of her wrongs.

“Laws-a-marcy, sights I’s seen in my times, and often it ‘pears like I’s lost my senses. I tells you, yous only got to look at this ar back to know what I’s went through,” she declared, exposing her frightfully scarred back and arms.

“This ar scar,” she pointed to a very deep one on her left shoulder, “Masser gib me kase I cried when he sold my oldes’ son. Poor Jim, he was sent down the river, and I’ve never hearn from him since.”

She wiped a stray tear from her old eyes.

“Oh me! ‘Tis a long time since my eyes hab watered, and now these tears do feel so quare. Poor Jim is down the river, Johnny is dead, and Lucy is sold somewhar. So I have neither chick nor child. What’s I got to live fur?” she wailed.

This brought fresh to my mind recollection of my own mother’s grief, when she was forced to give me up, and I could not restrain my tears.

“What fur you crying, child?” she asked.

“It puts me in mind ov’ my poor little Luce. She used to cry this way whenever anything happened to me. Oh, many is the time she screamed if master struck me,” she added.
“Poor Aunt Grace,” I said, as I walked up to her side, “I do pity you. I will be kind to you. I will be your daughter.”

She looked up with a wild stare, and with a deep earnestness seized hold of my outstretched hand. Then dropping it suddenly, she murmured, “No, no, you ain’t my darter. You comes to me with saft words, but you is jest like Mandy and all the rest of ‘em. You’ll go to the house and tell tale to the white folks on me. No, I’ll not trust any of you!”

Springing suddenly into the room, with his eyes flaming, came Walsh, and, cracking his whip right and left, he struck each of the listening group. I retreated hastily to an extreme corner of the kitchen, where, unobserved by him, I could watch the affray.

“You devilish old wretch, Grace. What are you gabbling and snubbling here about? Up with yer old hide and git yer supper ready! Don’t you know thar is company in the house?” he thundered.

Here he gave another sharp cut of the whip, which descended upon that poor old scarred back with a cruel force, and tore open old wounds. She did not scream, nor shrink, nor murmur, but her features resumed their hard, encrusted expression, and, rising up from her seat, she went on with her usual work.

Walsh ran the children off, demanding they “cut like the wind”, and left the kitchen. I proceeded to assist Aunt Grace in dishing up the supper.

“This chicken,” said I in a tone of encouragement, “is beautifully cooked. How brown it is, and oh, what a delightful savoury smell.”

“The white folks will find fault wid it. Nobody ever did please Miss Darla. Her is got some of the most perkuler notions ’bout cookin’. I knows she’ll be kommin’ out here makin’ a fuss ’long wid me ’bout dis same supper,” and the old woman shook her head knowingly.

I made no reply, for I feared the reappearance of Mr. Walsh. Too often and too painfully had I felt the sting of his lash to be guilty of any provocation of its appearance. Silently, but with bitter thoughts curdling my life-blood, I arranged the steaming cookies upon the luxurious tea board. Then with a deferential air, sought the solarium and bade them walk out to tea.

+ + + +


I found Miss Darla near a fine rosewood piano, and standing beside her was the gentleman from earlier. Miss Harmony was at the window observing the evening fade into night. I spoke in a soft tone, asking them, “Please come out to tea.”

The gentleman offered his arm to Miss Darla, and Miss Harmony followed. I swung the dining room door open with great pomp and ceremony, for I knew that anything showy or grand would be acceptable to Miss Darla. Fashion, or style, was her god of worship, and she often declared that her principal objection to the negro, was his great want of style in thought and action.

The supper passed off very handsomely, so far as my part was concerned. I carried the cups round on a silver salver* to each one; served them with chicken, plied them with cakes and confections, and interspersed my performance with innumerable curtsies, bows and scrapes.

“Ah,” said Miss Darla to the gentleman, “Ah, Mr. O’Connor, you have visited me at the wrong season. You should be here later in the autumn, or earlier in the summer.

She gave him one of her most benign smiles.

“Any season is pleasant here,” replied Mr. O’Connor with a charming smile.

Miss Darla simpered and looked down. Miss Harmony arched her brows and gave a significant side-long glance toward her sister.

“Here, you cussed yallow gal,” said The Master in a rage, “take this split spoon* away and fetch me a fork what I ken use. These darned things is only made for grand folks,” and he held the silver fork to me. Instantly I replaced it with a steel one.

“Now this looks something like. We only uses them ar other ones when we has company. I s’pose, Mr. O’Connor, the girl sot the table in this grand way bekase you is here,” The Master went on.

No thunder cloud was darker than Miss Darla’s brow. It gathered, and deepened, and darkened like a thick-coming tempest, whilst bolts of lightning blazed from her eyes.

“Father,” she spoke through clenched teeth, “what makes you affect this horrid vulgarity? How can you be so very idiosyncratic (this was a favourite word with her) as to say you never use them? Ever since I can remember, silver forks have been used in our family.”

“But,” she continued with a sudden sweet smile, “Mr. O’Connor, father thinks it is truly a Kentucky fashion, and in keeping with the spirit of the early settlers, to rail out against fashion and style.”

To this explanation Mr. O’Connor bowed blandly, “Ah, yes, I do admire your father’s honest independence.”

“I’ll jist tell you how it is, young man. My gals has bin better edjicated than their pappy, and they pretends to be mighty ’shamed of me bekase I has got no larnin’. But I wants to ax ’em one question – whar did the money kum from that give ’em thar larning?” The Master informed Mr. O’Connor.

With a triumphant force he brought his hard fist down on the table, knocking off with his elbow a fine cut-glass tumbler, which was shivered to atoms.

“Thar now,” he exclaimed, “another piece of yer cussed frippery is breaked to bits. What did you put it here fur? I wants that big tin-cup that I drinks out of when nobody’s here.”

“Father, father,” said Miss Harmony, who until now had kept an austere silence, “why will you persist in this outrageous talk? Why will you mortify and torture us in this cruel way?”

Miss Harmony promptly burst into a flood of angry tears.

“Oh, don’t blubber about it, Harm. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelin’s,” The Master placated her.

Pretty soon after this, the peace of the table being broken up, the ladies and Mr. O’Connor adjourned to the solarium, whilst Amanda and I set about clearing off the table, washing up the dishes, and counting over the forks and spoons.

Now, though the young ladies made great pretensions to elegance and splendour of living, they were vastly economical when no company was present. The silver was all carefully laid away and locked up in the lower drawer of an old-fashioned bureau. The family appropriated commoner cutlery for their everyday use; but let a solitary guest appear, and forthwith the napkins and silver would be displayed, and treated by the ladies as if it was quite a usual thing.

+ + + +

“Now, Ann,” said Amanda, “you wash th’ dishes, n’ I’ll count th’ spoons n’ forks.”

To this I readily agreed, for I was anxious to get clear of such a responsibility as counting the silverware. The Master sat nearby smoking his cob-pipe in a foul mood, for the recent encounter at supper was by no means calculated to improve his temper.

“See here, gals,” he cried in a tone of thunder, “if thar be one silver spoon or fork missin’, yer hides shall pay for the loss.”

“Laws, master, I’ll be ’tickler enough,” replied Amanda as she smile in terror more than pleasure.

“Wal,” he said half aloud, “whar is the use of my darters takin’ on in the way they does? Jist look at the sight o’ money that has bin laid out in that ar tom-foolery.”

This was a sort of soliloquy spoken in a tone audible enough to be distinct to us.

He drew his cob-pipe from his mouth, and a huge volume of smoke curled round his head, and filled the room with the aroma of tobacco.

“Now,” he continued, “they does not treat me wid any perliteness. They thinks they knows a power more than I does; but if they don’t cut their cards square, I’ll cut them short of a nigger or two, and make Dawn all the richer by it.”

Amanda cut her eye knowingly at this, and gave me a rather strong nudge with her elbow.

“Keep still thar, gals. Don’t rattle them cups and sassers so powerful hard,” he chided.

By this time Amanda had finished the assortment of the silver, and had carefully stowed it away in a basket, ready to be delivered to Miss Darla, and thence consigned to the drawer where it would remain until the timely arrival of another guest.

“Now,” she said, “I am ready to wipe the dishes, while you wash.”

Thereupon I handed her a saucer, which, in her carelessness, she let slip from her hand, and it fell upon the floor. There, with great consternation, I beheld it lying, shattered to fragments. The Master sprang to his feet, glad of an excuse to vent his temper upon someone….

Chapter Five

“Which of you cussed wretches did this?” the Master thundered as his visage became mangled with fury.

“‘Twas Anne, master! She let it fall afore I got my hand on it!” Amanda quickly supplied.

“Master, it—” my protest was cut off by the resounding ‘thwack!” of his hand upon the side of my face.

“You damn yallow hussy! Does you think I buys such expensive chany-ware for you to break it up in this ‘ar way?!” he demanded.

“But I di—”

My attempt to vindicate myself was answered with a blow from his iron arm.

“No, you ‘bominable wench! I’ll have revenge out of your saffr’n hide!” he vowed.

He gave me a powerful blow that felled me to the floor. Then he placed his hoof-like foot upon my breast and barked to Amanda, “Here, Amanda, fetch me that cowhide!”

Realizing the implication of those words, my eyes widened with fright and I struggled to wheeze out pleas for mercy. His eyes gleamed with cruelty as he watched my struggle. Then he removed his foot from my breast and bellowed, “Here, quick, some of you darkies, bring me a rope and light!”

“Mercy, master mercy!” I cried when I could breathe again.

“Yes, I’ll tache you what mercy is. I’m goin’ to take you to the whippin’-post,” he declared with relish.

Though I had often been cruelly beaten, yet had I escaped the odium of the “post”. Now, for what I had not done, and for a thing that was at the worst, an accident, I was to bear the disgrace and the pain of a public whipping. This filled me with overwhelming terror and I fell on my knees before him.

“Oh, master, please pardon me. Spare me this time. I have got a half-dollar that my old Master Jonathan gave me when you bought me. I’ll give it to you to pay for the saucer, but please do not beat me,” I begged with my heart, soul, and strength.

With a wild, fiendish grin, he caught me by the hair and swung me round until I half-fainted with pain.

“No, you wretch, I’ll git my satisfaction out of yer body yit, and I’ll be bound. Afore this night’s work is done yer yallow hide will be well marked,” he promised.

A deadly, cold sensation crept over me, and a feeling as of crawling adders possessed my nerves. With all my soul pleading in my eyes, I looked at the Master; but one look at his fiendish face made my soul quail with an even newer horror.

Walsh appeared and I turned my gaze to him. A red, demonic glare lit up his eyes and the words of profane bravo were on his lips. From him I turned to Amanda, who had returned with a bunch of cord in her hand.

“Oh, Amanda, be kind and tell the truth. Maybe master will forgive you. You are an older servant, better known and valued in this family. Speak the truth and free me from the torture that awaits me,” I beseeched her.

“Well, you is crazy. You knows dat I never touched de sasser,” she denied with a hearty laugh.

The Master took the rope from Amanda and ordered me, “Now hold yer hands here.”

For one moment I hesitated. I could not summon the courage to offer my hands. It was the only resistance I had ever dared to make. A severe blow from Walsh’s riding whip reminded me that I was still a slave, and dared have no will save that of my master. This blow, which struck me on the back of my head, laid me half-lifeless upon the floor. Whilst I was in this condition, Walsh had one of the other slaves bind the rope tightly across my arms and drag me to the whipping post.

The motion of being pulled over the ground restored me to consciousness and I looked with a haggard eye to the starry heaven. I murmured a prayer and looked upon the whipping post which loomed before me like an ogre.

It was a four-sided post about eight feet in height. It had iron clasps on two opposing sides where the wrists and ankles were tightly secured.

“Now, Amanda,” said Walsh, “jerk off that gal’s rigging. I am anxious to put marks on her yellow skin.”

I knew that resistance was vain; so I submitted to have my clothes torn from my body.

Walsh dipped a huge strip of cow-hide in a barrel of brine near the post. He flourished the whip and proclaimed, “I guess this will sting.”

“Leave the thin slip on me, Amanda,” I ventured to ask, for I dreaded the exposure of my body more than the whipping.

“None of yer cussed impedence- strip off naked! What is a nigger’s hide more than a hog’s?” said Walsh.

Amanda tore the last article of clothing from my back.

I then submitted to having the iron cuffs around my hands and ankles; and there I stood, a revolting spectacle. With misery, I listened to the obscene and ribald jests from the Master and Walsh.

“Now, Walsh,” said the Master, “I want to give that gal the first lick, which will lay the flesh open to the bone.”

“Well, Mr. Nest, here is the whip,” Walsh handed the whip to the Master, “Now you can lay on.”

“No, confound your whip. I wants that cow-hide and here, let me dip it well into the brine. I want to give her a real good warmin’ – one that she’ll remember for a long time,” he said in a menacing tone.

The first lick from the Master laid my back open. I writhed, I wrestled; but blow after blow descended, each harder than the preceding one. I shrieked, I screamed, I prayed, I pleaded, but there was no mercy shown to me. When he was fully gratified, the Master turned to Walsh and said, “Now yer turn. You can beat her as much as you please. Jist leave a bit o’ life in her is all I cares for.”

“ Yes. I’ll not spile her for the market; but I does want to take a little o’ the damned pride out o’ her,” Walsh agreed.

By this time, all the slaves except Aunt Grace had been assembled around the post.

With a haggard eye, I looked at my fellow slaves - some looked at me with pity, some indifference. Some of the women fought back tears as they buried the children’s frightened faces in the folds of their skirts.

“Now boys, you will see what a true stroke I ken make; but darn my buttons if I don’t think Mr. Nest has drawn all her blood,” Walsh announced to his captive audience.

So saying , he drew the cow-hide back at arm’s length and spun around a few times. Then he took what he called ‘sure aim’. I closed my eyes in terror. More from the terrible pain, than the few horrified gasps did I know that Walsh had landed a blow that he liked to call ‘true blue’.

A cold, clammy sensation overtook me and my breath grew feeble, as the salt from the brine seemed to eat through my flesh and devour my very soul. The lulling song of the night gently sounded in my ears; and, as if gliding away on a moonbeam, I passed from all consciousness of pain. It was a sweet oblivion like that of a weary, fever-sick patient who hears that his hour of rest has come.

How long this stupor lasted, I am unable to say; but when I awoke, I was on a rough bed, and a beautiful face with kind, doe eyes hovered over me. I opened my eyes, closed them, languidly re-opened them, and then closed them again.

“Now chile, I thinks you is a leetle better,” said a voice I recognized as Aunt Grace.

“Does it still hurt terribly?” the doe-eyed angel asked.

However, I was too weak, too wandering in mind, to talk. I closed my eyes and slept again.