ood
minister had smoothed matters over: had explained that allowances were to
be made for those who had been long sitting without the gate of
Zion,--that, no doubt, a part of the curse which descended to the
children of Ham consisted in "having the understanding darkened," as well
as the skin,--and so had brought his suspicious senior deacon to tolerate
old Sophy as one of the communion of fellow-sinners.

--Poor things! How little we know the simple notions with which these
rudiments of souls are nourished by the Divine Goodness! Did not Mrs.
Professor come home this very blessed morning with a story of one of her
old black women?

"And how do you feel to-day, Mrs. Robinson?"

"Oh, my dear, I have this singing in my head all the time." (What
doctors call tinnitus aurium.)

"She 's got a cold in the head," said old Mrs. Rider.

"Oh, no, my dear! Whatever I'm thinking about, it's all this singing,
this music. When I'm thinking of the dear Redeemer, it all turns into
this singing and music. When the clark came to see me, I asked him if he
couldn't cure me, and he said, No,--it was the Holy Spirit in me, singing
to me; and all the time I hear this beautiful music, and it's the Holy
Spirit a-singing to me."

The good man waited for Sophy to speak; but she did not open her lips as
yet.

"I hope you are not troubled in mind or body," he said to her at length,
finding she did not speak.

The poor old woman took out a white handkerchief, and lifted it--to her
black face. She could not say a word for her tears and sobs.

The minister would have consoled her; he was used to tears, and could in
most cases withstand their contagion manfully; but something choked his
voice suddenly, and when he called upon it, he got no answer, but a
tremulous movement of the muscles, which was worse than silence.

At last she spoke.

"Oh, no, no, no! It's my poor girl, my darling, my beauty, my baby, that
's grown up to be a woman; she will come to a bad end; she will do
something that will make them kill her or shut her up all her life. Or,
Doctor, Doctor, save her, pray for her! It a'n't her fault. It a'n't
her fault. If they knew all that I know, they would n' blame that poor
child. I must tell you, Doctor: if I should die, perhaps nobody else
would tell you. Massa Veneer can't talk about it. Doctor Kittredge
won't talk about it. Nobody but old Sophy to tell you, Doctor; and old
Sophy can't die without telling you."