“Some persons now entered, and Lucy became absorbed in her present grief; her old frame shook as 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 couch about him, and laid down to pleasant dreams.”  Ere yielding, it turns with energy to the calls of memory, though it is so soon to forget all for a while.  It hears voices long since hushed, and eyes gaze into it that have looked their last upon earthly visions.  Time is forgotten, Affection