ng but what I say," says she. "I say again, she is my
mother, and will not own me;" and with that she stopped with a flood of
tears.

"Not own thee!" says the Quaker; and the tender good creature wept too.
"Why," says she, "she does not know thee, and never saw thee before."

"No," says the girl, "I believe she does not know me, but I know her;
and I know that she is my mother."

"It's impossible, thou talk'st mystery!" says the Quaker; "wilt thou
explain thyself a little to me?"

"Yes, yes," says she, "I can explain it well enough. I am sure she is my
mother, and I have broke my heart to search for her; and now to lose her
again, when I was so sure I had found her, will break my heart more
effectually."

"Well, but if she be thy mother," says the Quaker, "how can it be that
she should not know thee?"

"Alas!" says she, "I have been lost to her ever since I was a child; she
has never seen me."

"And hast thou never seen her?" says the Quaker.

"Yes," says she, "I have seen her; often enough I saw her; for when she
was the Lady Roxana I was her housemaid, being a servant, but I did not
know her then, nor she me; but it has all come out since. Has she not a
maid named Amy?" Note.--The honest Quaker was--nonplussed, and greatly
surprised at that question.

"Truly," says she, "the Lady ---- has several women servants, but I do
not know all their names."

"But her woman, her favourite," adds the girl; "is not her name Amy?"

"Why, truly," says the Quaker, with a very happy turn of wit, "I do not
like to be examined; but lest thou shouldest take up any mistakes by
reason of my backwardness to speak, I will answer thee for once, that
what her woman's name is I know not, but they call her Cherry."

_N.B._--My husband gave her that name in jest on our wedding-day, and we
had called her by it ever after; so that she spoke literally true at
that time.

The girl replied very modestly that she was sorry if she gave her any
offence in asking; that she did not design to be rude to her, or pretend
to examine her; but that she was in such an agony at this disaster that
she knew not what she did or said; and that she should be very sorry to
disoblige her, but begged of her again, as she was a Christian and a
woman, and had been a mother of children, that she would take pity on
her, and, if possible, assist her, so that she might but come to me and
speak a few words to me.

The tender-hearted Quaker told me the girl spok