room, fell upon a lady in a cap, reading a tract to a large,
shaven, square-jawed man, and this woman was of a silver kind of beauty,
as if her mind had overflowed into her heart, and, not affecting it, had
made her face of argent and lily, milk and sheen.

"What sayeth Brother Elias, Lucretia?"

"He sayeth, Thomas: 'This noble testimony, of refusing to partake of the
spoils of oppression, lies with the dearly beloved young people of this
day. We can look for but little from the aged, who have been accustomed
to these things, like second nature. Without justice there can be no
virtue. Oh, justice, justice, how art thou abused everywhere! Men make
justice, like a nose of wax, to satisfy their desires. If the soul is
possessed of love, there is quietness.'"

"Yes," said the girl, from the bed, thinking aloud; "love is quietness.
Will father come!"

She dreamed and heard and looked forth again upon the hill descending to
the river, the stately sails, the farther shore, so like her native
region, and asked with her eyes what land they might be in.

"Wilmington," said the beautiful woman. "This is the house of Thomas
Garrett, the friend of slaves. When you can be moved, it shall be to the
green hills of the Brandywine, where all are free."

"Hills? What are they?" mused Virgie, looking at her wasted hand. "Must
I climb any more? Must I wade the swamps again? I know I have a father
somewhere."

She dreamed and wept unconsciously, and told of many things at Teackle
Hall, being, indeed, a little child again, playing with her little
mistress, Vesta. The stars stood in the sky right over her pillow, and
she talked to them, and some she seemed to know, as little Vince, or
little Roxy, or Master Willy Tilghman, all playmates of her childhood;
but ever and anon these vanished, and the young Quaker woman was reading
again from the sermons of Elias Hicks, and the words were: "Love is
quietness;" "Light only can qualify the soul;" "If I go not away, the
Comforter will not come unto you."

"What Comforter?" sighed Virgie, and there seemed a great blank, and
then she heard a scream--was it she that screamed so?--and she was
trying with all her might to get somewhere, and was fainting in the
labor, but trying again and again, and then a calmness that was like
gentle awe, strange because so painless, spread into her nature, and she
only listened.

"My daughter," said a voice, "my own child! Call me 'father,' and say I
am forgive