“Do you remember where she came from, and who was her mother?” asked Robert, anxiously.

“My dear friend, you must be quiet.  The fever has left you, but I will not answer for the consequences if you get excited.”

Robert lay quiet and thoughtful for awhile and, seeing he was wakeful, Iola said, “Have you any friends to whom you would like to send a letter?”

A pathetic expression flitted over his face, as he sadly replied, “I haven’t, to my knowledge, a single relation in the world.  When I was about ten years old my mother and sister were sold from me.  It is more than twenty years since I have heard from them.  But that hymn which you were singing reminded me so much of my mother!  She used to sing it when I was a child.  Please sing it again.”

Iola’s voice rose soft and clear by his bedside, till he fell into a quiet slumber.  She remembered that her mother had spoken of her brother before they had parted, and her interest and curiosity were awakened by Robert’s story.  While he slept, she closely scrutinized Robert’s features, and detected a striking resemblance between him and her mother.

“Oh, I do wonder if he can be my mother’s brother, from whom she has been separated so many years!”

Anxious as she was to ascertain if there was any relationship between Robert and her mother, she forebore to question him on the subject which lay so near her heart.  But one day, when he was so far recovered as to be able to walk around, he met Iola on the hospital grounds, and said to her:—­

“Miss Iola, you remind me so much of my mother and sister that I cannot help wondering if you are the daughter of my long-lost sister.”

“Do you think,” asked Iola, “if you saw the likeness of your sister you would recognize her?”

“I am afraid not.  But there is one thing I can remember about her:  she used to have a mole on her cheek, which mother used to tell her was her beauty spot.”

“Look at this,” said Iola, handing him a locket which contained her mother’s picture.

Robert grasped the locket eagerly, scanned the features attentively, then, handing it back, said:  “I have only a faint remembrance of my sister’s features; but I never could recognize in that beautiful woman the dear little sister with whom I used to play.  Oh, the cruelty of slavery!  How it wrenched and tore us apart!  Where is your mother now?”

“Oh, I cannot tell,” answered Iola.  “I left her in Mississippi.  My father was a wealthy Creole planter, who fell in love with my mother.  She was his slave, but he educated her in the North, freed, and married her.  My father was very careful to have the fact of our negro blood concealed from us.  I had not the slightest suspicion of it.  When he was dead the secret was revealed.  His white relations set aside my father’s will, had his marriage declared invalid, and my mother and her children were remanded to slavery.”  Iola shuddered as she pronounced the horrid word, and grew deadly pale; but, regaining her self-possession, continued:  “Now, that freedom has come, I intend to search for my mother until I find her.”