child, to
train them for God's children. May he protect and provide for
you, is the prayer of your loving old mother.

These letters both cheered and saddened me. I was always glad to have
tidings from the kind, faithful old friend of my unhappy youth; but her
messages of love made my heart yearn to see her before she died, and I
mourned over the fact that it was impossible. Some months after I returned
from my flight to New England, I received a letter from her, in which she
wrote, "Dr. Flint is dead. He has left a distressed family. Poor old man! I
hope he made his peace with God."

I remembered how he had defrauded my grandmother of the hard earnings she
had loaned; how he had tried to cheat her out of the freedom her mistress
had promised her, and how he had persecuted her children; and I thought to
myself that she was a better Christian than I was, if she could entirely
forgive him. I cannot say, with truth, that the news of my old master's
death softened my feelings towards him. There are wrongs which even the
grave does not bury. The man was odious to me while he lived, and his
memory is odious now.

His departure from this world did not diminish my danger. He had threatened
my grandmother that his heirs should hold me in slavery after he was gone;
that I never should be free so long as a child of his survived. As for Mrs.
Flint, I had seen her in deeper afflictions than I supposed the loss of her
husband would be, for she had buried several children; yet I never saw any
signs of softening in her heart. The doctor had died in embarrassed
circumstances, and had little to will to his heirs, except such property as
he was unable to grasp. I was well aware what I had to expect from the
family of Flints; and my fears were confirmed by a letter from the south,
warning me to be on my guard, because Mrs. Flint openly declared that her
daughter could not afford to lose so valuable a slave as I was.

I kept close watch of the newspapers for arrivals; but one Saturday night,
being much occupied, I forgot to examine the Evening Express as usual. I
went down into the parlor for it, early in the morning, and found the boy
about to kindle a fire with it. I took it from him and examined the list of
arrivals. Reader, if you have never been a slave, you cannot imagine the
acute sensation of suffering at my heart, when I read the names of Mr. and
Mrs. Dodge, at a hotel in Courtland Street. It was a third-rate hotel, and
th