on seems to be a necessary qualification of the female mind--I think
this, because I have been so fortunate in those of our own family. My
mother died soon after my birth; her friends often dwell on the early piety
so beautifully developed in her character. We have a relative, an old maid,
who lives with us; she forgets her own existence, laboring always for the
good of others. My aunt is a noble Christian woman, and Alice has not
breathed such an atmosphere in vain. We have a servant woman named Phillis,
her price is far above rubies. Her industry, her honesty, her attachment to
our family, exceeds every thing. I wish Abolitionists would imitate one of
her virtues--humility. I know of no poetry more beautiful than the hymns
she sang to me in my infancy; her whole life has been a recommendation of
the religion of the Bible. I wish my chance of Heaven were half as good as
hers. She is a slave here, but she is destined to be a saint hereafter."

CHAPTER XIII.

The evening is drawing on again at Exeter, and Alice and her mother are in
a little sitting room that opens on the porch. Mrs. Weston is fanning her
daughter, who has been suffering during the day from headache. Miss Janet
is there, too, and for a rare occurrence, is idle; looking from the window
at the tall peaks of the Blue Ridge upon which she has gazed for many a
year. Little Lydia stands by her side, her round eyes peering into Miss
Janet's face, wondering what would happen, that she should be unemployed.
They are awaiting Mr. Weston's return from an afternoon ride, to meet at
the last and most sociable meal of the day.

"Miss Janet," said Lydia, "aint Miss Alice white?"

"Very pale," said Miss Janet, looking at Alice; then, with a sigh, turning
to the mountains again.

"What makes her so white?" asked Lydia, in an under tone.

"She has had a headache all day. Be quiet, child," said Miss Janet.

After a moment, Lydia said, "I wish I could have de headache all de time."

"What do you say such a foolish thing as that for, Lydia?"

"'Kase I'd like to be white, like Miss Alice." Miss Janet did not reply.
Again Lydia spoke, "If I was to stay all time in de house, and never go in
de sun, would I git white?"

"No--no--foolish child; what gives you such ideas?"

There was another pause. Mrs. Weston fanned Alice, who, with closed eyes,
laid languidly on the lounge.

"Miss Janet," said Lydia, speaking very softly, "who made de
lightning-bugs?"

"God