with a tempest, when the fair face was hid from her
sight. There were few mourners; Cousin Weston and I followed her to the
grave. I believe Ellen was as pure as the white lilies Lucy planted at her
head."

"Did Lucy ever hear of her children?" asked Alice.

"No, my darling, she died soon after Ellen. She was quite an old woman, and
had never been strong."

"Uncle," said Alice, "I did not think any one could be so inhuman as to
separate mother and children."

"It is the worst feature in slavery," replied Mr. Weston, "and the State
should provide laws to prevent it; but such a circumstance is very
uncommon. Haywood, Ellen's father, was a notoriously bad man, and after
this wicked act was held in utter abhorrence in the neighborhood. It is the
interest of a master to make his slaves happy, even were he not actuated by
better motives. Slavery is an institution of our country; and while we are
privileged to maintain our rights, we should make them comfortable here,
and fit them for happiness hereafter."

"Did you bring Lucy home with you, Cousin Janet?" asked Alice.

"Yes, my love, and little Walter too. He was a dear baby--now he is a man
of fortune, (for Mr. Lee left him his entire property,) and is under no
one's control. He will always be very dear to me. But here comes Mark with
the Prayer Book."

"Lay it here, Mark," said Mr. Weston, "and ring the bell for the servants.
I like all who can to come and unite with me in thanking God for His many
mercies. Strange, I have opened the Holy Book where David says, (and we
will join with him,) 'Praise the Lord, oh! my soul, and all that is within
me, praise his holy name.'"

CHAPTER III.

After the other members of the family had retired, Mr. Weston, as was usual
with him, sat for a while in the parlor to read. The closing hour of the
day is, of all, the time that we love to dwell on the subject nearest our
heart. As, at the approach of death, the powers of the mind rally, and the
mortal, faint and feeble, with but a few sparks of decaying life within
him, arouses to a sense of his condition, and puts forth all his energies,
to meet the hour of parting with earth and turning his face to heaven; so,
at the close of the evening, the mind, wearied with its day's travelling,
is about to sink into that repose as necessary for it as for the body--that
repose so often compared to the one in which the tired struggler with life,
has "forever wrapped the drapery of his