ger had brought tidings of death instead of freedom. Poor old
grandmother felt that she should never see her darling boy again. And I was
selfish. I thought more of what I had lost, than of what my brother had
gained. A new anxiety began to trouble me. Mr. Sands had expended a good
deal of money, and would naturally feel irritated by the loss he had
incurred. I greatly feared this might injure the prospects of my children,
who were now becoming valuable property. I longed to have their
emancipation made certain. The more so, because their master and father was
now married. I was too familiar with slavery not to know that promises made
to slaves, though with kind intentions, and sincere at the time, depend
upon many contingencies for their fulfillment.

Much as I wished William to be free, the step he had taken made me sad and
anxious. The following Sabbath was calm and clear; so beautiful that it
seemed like a Sabbath in the eternal world. My grandmother brought the
children out on the piazza, that I might hear their voices. She thought it
would comfort me in my despondency; and it did. They chatted merrily, as
only children can. Benny said, "Grandmother, do you think uncle Will has
gone for good? Won't he ever come back again? May be he'll find mother. If
he does, _won't_ she be glad to see him! Why don't you and uncle Phillip,
and all of us, go and live where mother is? I should like it; wouldn't you,
Ellen?"

"Yes, I should like it," replied Ellen; "but how could we find her? Do you
know the place, grandmother? I don't remember how mother looked--do you,
Benny?"

Benny was just beginning to describe me when they were interrupted by an
old slave woman, a near neighbor, named Aggie. This poor creature had
witnessed the sale of her children, and seen them carried off to parts
unknown, without any hopes of ever hearing from them again. She saw that my
grandmother had been weeping, and she said, in a sympathizing tone, "What's
the matter, aunt Marthy?"

"O Aggie," she replied, "it seems as if I shouldn't have any of my children
or grandchildren left to hand me a drink when I'm dying, and lay my old
body in the ground. My boy didn't come back with Mr. Sands. He staid at the
north."

Poor old Aggie clapped her hands for joy. "Is _dat_ what you's crying fur?"
she exclaimed. "Git down on your knees and bress de Lord! I don't know whar
my poor chillern is, and I nebber 'spect to know. You don't know whar poor
Linda's gone