making an arrangement
with the owner of my father, by which the separation of my parents could
be brought to an end. It was a bright day, indeed, for my mother when it
was announced that my father was coming to live with us. The old weary
look faded from her face, and she worked as if her heart was in every
task. But the golden days did not last long. The radiant dream faded all
too soon.

In the morning my father called me to him and kissed me, then held me
out at arms' length as if he were regarding his child with pride. "She
is growing into a large fine girl," he remarked to my mother. "I dun no
which I like best, you or Lizzie, as both are so dear to me." My
mother's name was Agnes, and my father delighted to call me his "Little
Lizzie." While yet my father and mother were speaking hopefully,
joyfully of the future, Mr. Burwell came to the cabin, with a letter in
his hand. He was a kind master in some things, and as gently as possible
informed my parents that they must part; for in two hours my father must
join his master at Dinwiddie, and go with him to the West, where he had
determined to make his future home. The announcement fell upon the
little circle in that rude-log cabin like a thunderbolt. I can remember
the scene as if it were but yesterday;--how my father cried out against
the cruel separation; his last kiss; his wild straining of my mother to
his bosom; the solemn prayer to Heaven; the tears and sobs--the fearful
anguish of broken hearts. The last kiss, the last good-by; and he, my
father, was gone, gone forever. The shadow eclipsed the sunshine, and
love brought despair. The parting was eternal. The cloud had no silver
lining, but I trust that it will be all silver in heaven. We who are
crushed to earth with heavy chains, who travel a weary, rugged, thorny
road, groping through midnight darkness on earth, earn our right to
enjoy the sunshine in the great hereafter. At the grave, at least, we
should be permitted to lay our burdens down, that a new world, a world
of brightness, may open to us. The light that is denied us here should
grow into a flood of effulgence beyond the dark, mysterious shadows of
death. Deep as was the distress of my mother in parting with my father,
her sorrow did not screen her from insult. My old mistress said to her:
"Stop your nonsense; there is no necessity for you putting on airs. Your
husband is not the only slave that has been sold from his family, and
you are not the only