my mother's blessing when she died;
and in many an hour of tribulation I had seemed to hear her voice,
sometimes chiding me, sometimes whispering loving words into my wounded
heart. I have shed many and bitter tears, to think that when I am gone from
my children they cannot remember me with such entire satisfaction as I
remembered my mother.

The graveyard was in the woods, and twilight was coming on. Nothing broke
the death-like stillness except the occasional twitter of a bird. My spirit
was overawed by the solemnity of the scene. For more than ten years I had
frequented this spot, but never had it seemed to me so sacred as now. A
black stump, at the head of my mother's grave, was all that remained of a
tree my father had planted. His grave was marked by a small wooden board,
bearing his name, the letters of which were nearly obliterated. I knelt
down and kissed them, and poured forth a prayer to God for guidance and
support in the perilous step I was about to take. As I passed the wreck of
the old meeting house, where, before Nat Turner's time, the slaves had been
allowed to meet for worship, I seemed to hear my father's voice come from
it, bidding me not to tarry till I reached freedom or the grave. I rushed
on with renovated hopes. My trust in God had been strengthened by that
prayer among the graves.

My plan was to conceal myself at the house of a friend, and remain there a
few weeks till the search was over. My hope was that the doctor would get
discouraged, and, for fear of losing my value, and also of subsequently
finding my children among the missing, he would consent to sell us; and I
knew somebody would buy us. I had done all in my power to make my children
comfortable during the time I expected to be separated from them. I was
packing my things, when grandmother came into the room, and asked what I
was doing. "I am putting my things in order," I replied. I tried to look
and speak cheerfully; but her watchful eye detected something beneath the
surface. She drew me towards her, and asked me to sit down. She looked
earnestly at me, and said, "Linda, do you want to kill your old
grandmother? Do you mean to leave your little, helpless children? I am old
now, and cannot do for your babies as I once did for you."

I replied, that if I went away, perhaps their father would be able to
secure their freedom.

"Ah, my child," said she, "don't trust too much to him. Stand by your own
children, and suffer with them t