ore romantic and
thrilling. What a day will that be, when the recorded history of every
slave-life shall be read before an assembled universe! What a long
catalogue of martyrs and heroes will then be revealed! What complicated
tales of wrongs and woes! What crowns and palms of victory will then be
awarded! What treasures of wrath heaped up against the day of wrath will
then be poured in fiery indignation upon deserving heads! Truly, then,
will come to pass the saying of the Lord Jesus, "The first shall be last
and the last first."

Then, too, will appear most gloriously the loving kindness and tender
mercy of God, who loves to stoop to the poor and humble, and to care for
those who are friendless and alone. It seems as if our Heavenly Father
took special delight in revealing the truths of salvation to this
untutored people, in a mysterious way leading them into gospel light
and liberty; so that though men take pains to keep them in ignorance,
multitudes of them give evidence of piety, and find consolation for
their miseries in the sweet love of God.

It is the dealings of God in guiding one of these to a knowledge of
himself, that I wish to relate to you in the following chapters.

CHAPTER II. THE BABY.

IN a snug corner of a meager slave-cabin, on a low cot, lies a little
babe asleep. A scarlet honeysuckle of wild and luxuriant growth shades
the uncurtained and unsashed window; and the humming-birds, flitting
among its brilliant blossoms, murmur a constant, gentle lullaby for the
infant sleeper. See, its skin is not so dark but that we may clearly
trace the blue veins underlying it; the lips, half parted, are lovely
as a rosebud; and the soft, silky curls are dewy as the flowers on this
June morning. A dimpled arm and one naked foot have escaped from the
gay patch-work quilt, which some fond hand has closely tucked about the
little form; and the breath comes and goes quickly, as if the folded
eyes were feasting on visions of beauty and delight. Dear little one!

"We should see the spirits ringing
Round thee, were the clouds away;
'Tis the child-heart draws them, singing
In the silent-seeming clay."

Though that child-heart beats beneath a despised skin, though it has its
resting-place in a hovel, the angels may be there. Their loving, pitying
natures shrink not from poverty, but stoop with heavenly sympathy to the
mean abodes of suffering and misery.

A soft step steals in thro