University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.
MILLY'S STORY.

Nina spent the evening in the drawing-room; and her
brother, in the animation of a new pursuit, forgetful of the
difference of the morning, exerted himself to be agreeable,
and treated her with more consideration and kindness than
he had done any time since his arrival. He even made some
off-hand advances towards Clayton, which the latter received
with good-humor, and which went further than she supposed
to raise the spirits of Nina; and so, on the whole, she
passed a more than usually agreeable evening. On retiring
to her room, she found Milly, who had been for some time
patiently waiting for her, having despatched her mistress
to bed some time since.

“Well, Miss Nina, I am going on my travels in the morning.
Thought I must have a little time to see you, lamb,
'fore I goes.”

“I can't bear to have you go, Milly! I don't like that
man you are going with.”

“I spects he 's a nice man,” said Milly. “Of course
he 'll look me out a nice place, because he has always took
good care of Miss Loo's affairs. So you never trouble
yourself 'bout me! I tell you, chile, I never gets where I
can't find de Lord; and when I finds Him, I gets along.
`De Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.'”

“But you have never been used to living except in our
family,” said Nina, “and, somehow, I feel afraid. If they
don't treat you well, come back, Milly; will you?”

“Laws, chile, I is n't much feared but what I 'll get along

well enough. When people keep about dere business, doing
the best dey ken, folks does n't often trouble dem. I
never yet seed de folks I could n't suit,” she added, with a
glow of honest pride. “No, chile, it is n't for myself I 's
fearing; it 's just for you, chile. Chile, you don't know
what it is to live in dis yer world, and I wants you to get
de Best Friend to go with you. Why, dear lamb, you wants
somebody to go to and open your heart; somebody dat 'll
love you, and always stand by you; somebody dat 'll
always lead you right, you know. You has more cares than
such a young thing ought for to have; great many looking
to you, and 'pending on you. Now, if your ma was alive,
it would be different; but, just now, I see how 't is;
dere 'll be a hundred things you 'll be thinking and feeling,
and nobody to say 'em to. And now, chile, you must learn
to go to de Lord. Why, chile, he loves you! Chile, he
loves you just as you be; if you only saw how much, it
would melt your heart right down. I told you I was going
some time fur to tell you my sperience — how I first found
Jesus. O Lord, Lord! but it is a long story.”

Nina, whose quick sympathies were touched by the
earnestness of her old friend, and still more aroused by the
allusion to her mother, answered,

“O, yes, come, tell me about it!” And, drawing a low
ottoman, she sat down, and laid her head on the lap of her
humble friend.

“Well, well, you see, chile,” said Milly, her large, dark
eyes fixing themselves on vacancy, and speaking in a slow
and dreamy voice, “a body's life, in dis yer world, is a
mighty strange thing! You see, chile, my mother — well,
dey brought her from Africa; my father, too. Heaps and
heaps my mother has told me about dat ar. Dat ar was a
mighty fine country, where dey had gold in the rivers,
and such great, big, tall trees, with de strangest beautiful
flowers on them you ever did see! Laws, laws! well, dey
brought my mother and my father into Charleston, and dere
Mr. Campbell, — dat was your ma's father, honey, — he

bought dem right out of de ship; but dey had five children,
and dey was all sold, and dey never knowed where
they went to. Father and mother could n't speak a word
of English when dey come ashore; and she told me often
how she could n't speak a word to nobody, to tell 'em how
it hurt her.

“Laws, when I was a chile, I 'member how often, when
de day's work was done, she used to come out and sit and
look up at de stars, and groan, groan, and groan! I was
a little thing, playing round; and I used to come up to her,
dancing, and saying,

“`Mammy, what makes you groan so? what 's de matter
of you?'

“`Matter enough, chile!' she used to say. `I 's a thinking
of my poor children. I likes to look at the stars, because
dey sees the same stars dat I do. 'Pears like we was
in one room; but I don't know where dey is! Dey don't
know where I be!'

“Den she 'd say to me,

“`Now, chile, you may be sold away from your mammy.
Der 's no knowing what may happen to you, chile; but, if
you gets into any trouble, as I does, you mind, chile, you ask
God to help you.'

“`Who is God, mammy,' says I, `any how?'

“`Why, chile,' says she, `he made dese yer stars.'

“And den I wanted mammy to tell me more about it;
only she says,

“`He can do anything he likes; and, if ye are in any
kind of trouble, he can help you.'

“Well, to be sure, I did n't mind much about it — all
dancing round, because pretty well don't need much help.
But she said dat ar to me so many times, I could n't help
'member it. Chile, troubles will come; and, when dey
does come, you ask God, and he will help you.

“Well, sure enough, I was n't sold from her, but she was
took from me, because Mr. Campbell's brother went off to
live in Orleans, and parted de hands. My father and mother

was took to Orleans, and I was took to Virginny. Well,
you see, I growed up along with de young ladies, — your
ma, Miss Harrit, Miss Loo, and de rest on 'em, — and I had
heaps of fun. Dey all like Milly. Dey could n't nobody
run, nor jump, nor ride a horse, nor row a boat, like Milly;
and so it was Milly here, and Milly dere, and whatever de
young ladies wanted, it was Milly made de way for it.

“Well, dere was a great difference among dem young
ladies. Dere was Miss Loo — she was de prettiest, and
she had a great many beaux; but, den, dere was your ma
— everybody loved her; and den dere was Miss Harrit —
she had right smart of life in her, and was always for doing
something — always right busy 'tending to something or
other, and she liked me because I 'd always go in with her.
Well, well! dem dar was pleasant times enough; but when
I got to be about fourteen or fifteen, I began to feel kind
o' bad — sort of strange and heavy. I really did n't know
why, but 'peared like 's when I got older, I felt I was in
bondage.

“'Member one day your ma came in, and seed me looking
out of window, and she says to me,

“`Milly, what makes you so dull lately?'

“`O,' says I, `I, somehow, I don't have good times.'

“`Why?' says she; `why not? Don't everybody
make much of you, and don't you have everything that you
want?'

“O, well,' says I, `missis, I 's a poor slave-girl, for all
dat.'

“Chile, your ma was a weety thing, like you. I 'member
just how she looked dat minute. I felt sorry, 'cause I
thought I 'd hurt her feelings. But says she,

“`Milly, I don't wonder you feel so. I know I should
feel so, myself, if I was in your place.'

“Afterwards, she told Miss Loo and Miss Harrit; but
dey laughed, and said dey guessed der was n't many
girls who were as well off as Milly. Well, den, Miss Harrit,
she was married de first. She married Mr. Charles

Blair; and when she was married, nothing was to do but
she must have me to go with her. I liked Miss Harrit;
but, den, honey, I 'd liked it much better if it had been your
ma. I 'd always counted that I wanted to belong to your
ma, and I think your ma wanted me; but, den, she was
still, and Miss Harrit she was one of the sort dat never lost
nothing by not asking for it. She was one of de sort dat
always got things, by hook or by crook. She always had
more clothes, and more money, and more everything, dan
the rest of them, 'cause she was always wide awake, and
looking out for herself.

“Well, Mr. Blair's place was away off in another part of
Virginny, and I went dere with her. Well, she wan't very
happy, no ways, she wan't; because Mr. Blair, he was a
high fellow. Laws, Miss Nina, when I tells you dis yere
one you 've got here is a good one, and I 'vise you to take
him, it 's because I knows what comes o' girls marrying
high fellows. Don't care how good-looking dey is, nor
what dere manners is, — it 's just the ruin of girls that has
them. Law, when he was a courting Miss Harrit, it was
all nobody but her. She was going to be his angel, and he
was going to give up all sorts of bad ways, and live such a
good life! Ah! she married him; it all went to smoke!
'Fore de month was well over, he got a going in his old
ways; and den it was go, go, all de time, carousing and
drinking, — parties at home, parties abroad, — money flying
like de water.

“Well, dis made a great change in Miss Harrit. She
did n't laugh no more; she got sharp and cross, and she
wan't good to me like what she used to be. She took to
be jealous of me and her husband. She might have saved
herself de trouble. I should n't have touched him with a
pair of tongs. But he was always running after everything
that came in his way; so no wonder. But, 'tween them
both, I led a bad life of it.

“Well, things dragged kind along in this way. She had
three children, and, at last, he was killed, one day, falling

off his horse when he was too drunk to hold the bridle.
Good riddance, too, I thought. And den, after he 's dead,
Miss Harrit, she seemed to grow more quiet like, and setting
herself picking up what pieces and crumbs was left for
her and de children. And I 'member she had one of her
uncles dere a good many days helping her in counting up
de debts. Well, dey was talking one day in missis' room,
and dere was a little light closet on one side, where I got
set down to do some fine stitching; but dey was too busy
in their 'counts to think anything 'bout me. It seemed
dat de place and de people was all to be sold off to pay
de debts, — all 'cept a few of us, who were to go off with
missis, and begin again on a small place, — and I heard him
telling her about it.

“`While your children are small,' he says, `you can live
small, and keep things close, and raise enough on the place
for ye all; and den you can be making the most of your
property. Niggers is rising in de market. Since Missouri
came in, they 's worth double; and so you can just sell de
increase of 'em for a good sum. Now, there 's that black
girl Milly, of yourn.' — You may be sure, now, I pricked
up my ears, Miss Nina. — `You don't often see a girl of
finer breed than she is,' says he, just as if I 'd been a cow,
you know. `Have you got her a husband?'

“`No,' said Miss Harrit; and then says she, `I believe
Milly is something of a coquette among the young men.
She 's never settled on anybody yet,' says she.

“`Well,' says he, `that must be attended to, 'cause
that girl's children will be an estate of themselves. Why,
I 've known women to have twenty! and her children
would n't any of 'em be worth less than eight hundred dollars.
There 's a fortune at once. If dey 's like her, dey 'll
be as good as cash in the market, any day. You can send
out and sell one, if you happen to be in any straits, just
as soon as you can draw a note on the bank.'

“O, laws, Miss Nina, I tell you dis yer fell on me like
so much lead. 'Cause, you see, I 'd been keeping company

with a very nice young man, and I was going to ask Miss
Harrit about it dat very day; but, dere — I laid down my
work dat minute, and thinks, says I, `True as de Lord 's
in heaven I won't never be married in dis world!' And I
cried 'bout it, off and on, all day, and at night I told Paul
'bout it. He was de one, you know. But Paul, he tried
to make it all smooth. He guessed it would n't happen; he
guessed missis would think better on 't. At any rate, we
loved each other, and why should n't we take as much
comfort as we could? Well, I went to Miss Harrit, and
told her just what I thought 'bout it. Allers had spoke
my mind to Miss Harrit 'bout everything, and I wan't
going to stop den. And she laughed at me, and told me
not to cry 'fore I 's hurt. Well, things went on so two
or three weeks, and finally Paul he persuaded me. And so
we was married. When our first child was born, Paul was
so pleased, he thought strange that I wan't.

“`Paul,' said I, `dis yer child an't ourn; it may be took
from us, and sold, any day.'

“`Well, well,' says he, `Milly, it may be God's child, any
way, even if it an't ourn.'

“'Cause, you see, Miss Nina, Paul, he was a Christian.
Ah, well, honey, I can't tell you; after dat I had a great
many chil'en, girls and boys, growing up round me.
Well, I 's had fourteen chil'en, dear, and dey 's all been
sold from me, every single one of 'em. Lord, it 's a heavy
cross! heavy, heavy! None knows but dem dat bears
it!”

“What a shame!” said Nina. “How could Aunt
Harriet be such a wicked woman? — an aunt of mine do
so!”

“Chile, chile,” said Milly, “we does n't none of us
know what 's in us. When Miss Harrit and I was gals
together, hunting hens' eggs and rowing de boat in de
river, — well, I would n't have thought it would have been
so, and she would n't have thought so, neither. But, den,
what little 's bad in girls when dey 's young and handsome,

and all de world smiling on 'em — O, honey, it gets
drefful strong when dey gets grown women, and de
wrinkles comes in der faces! Always, when she was a girl,
— whether it was eggs, or berries, or chincapins, or what,
— it was Miss Harrit's nature to get and to keep; and when
she got old, dat all turned to money.”

“O! but,” said Nina, “it does seem impossible that a
woman — a lady born, too, and my aunt — could do such a
thing!”

“Ah, ah, honey! ladies-born have some bad stuff in
dem, sometimes, like de rest of us. But, den, honey, it was
de most natural thing in de world, come to look on 't; for
now, see here, honey, dere was your aunt — she was poor,
and she was pestered for money. Dere was Mas'r George's
bills and Peter's bills to pay, and Miss Susy's; and every
one of 'em must have everything, and dey was all calling
for money, money; and dere has been times she did n't
know which way to turn. Now, you see, when a woman is
pestered to pay two hundred here and tree hundred dere,
and when she has got more niggers on her place dan she
can keep, and den a man calls in and lays down eight
hundred dollars in gold and bills before her, and says, `I
want dat ar Lucy or George of yourn,' why, don't you
see? Dese yer soul-drivers is always round, tempting folks
dey know is poor; and dey always have der money as
handy as de devil has his. But, den, I ought n't fur to be
hard upon dem poor soul-drivers, neither, 'cause dey an't
taught no better. It 's dese yer Christians, dat profess
Christ, dat makes great talks 'bout religion, dat has der
Bibles, and turns der backs upon swearing soul-drivers,
and tinks dey an't fit to speak to — it 's dem, honey, dat 's
de root of de whole business. Now, dere was dat uncle of
hern, — mighty great Christian he was, with his prayer-meetings,
and all dat! — he was always a putting her up to
it. O, dere 's been times — dere was times 'long first, Miss
Nina, when my first chil'en was sold — dat, I tell you, I
poured out my soul to Miss Harrit, and I 've seen dat ar

woman cry so dat I was sorry for her. And she said to
me, `Milly, I 'll never do it again.' But, Lord! I did n't
trust her, — not a word on 't, — 'cause I knowed she
would. I knowed dere was dat in her heart dat de devil
would n't let go of. I knowed he 'd no kind of objection to
her 'musing herself with meetin's, and prayers, and all dat;
but he 'd no notion to let go his grip on her heart.

“But, Lord! she was n't quite a bad woman, — poor Miss
Harrit was n't, — and she would n't have done so bad, if it
had n't been for him. But he 'd come and have prayers,
and exhort, and den come prowling round my place like a
wolf, looking at my chil'en.

“`And, Milly,' he 'd say, `how do you do now? Lucy
is getting to be a right smart girl, Milly. How old is she?
Dere 's a lady in Washington has advertised for a maid, —
a nice woman, a pious lady. I suppose you would n't
object, Milly? Your poor mistress is in great trouble for
money.'

“I never said nothing to that man. Only once, when
he asked me what I thought my Lucy would be worth,
when she was fifteen years old, says I to him:

“`Sir, she is worth to me just what your daughter is
worth to you.'

“Den I went in and shut de door. I did n't stay to see
how he took it. Den he 'd go up to de house, and talk to
Miss Harrit. 'T was her duty, he 'd tell her, to take
proper care of her goods. And dat ar meant selling my
chil'en! I 'member, when Miss Susy came home from
boarding-school, she was a pretty girl; but I did n't look
on her very kind, I tell you, 'cause three of my chil'en
had been sold to keep her at school. My Lucy, — ah,
honey! — she went for a lady's maid. I knowed what dat
ar meant, well enough. De lady had a son grown, and
he took Lucy with him to Orleans, and dere was an end of
dat. Dere don't no letters go 'tween us. Once gone, we
can't write, and it is good as being dead. Ah, no, chile,
not so good! Paul used to teach Lucy little hymns, nights,

'fore she went to sleep. And if she 'd a died right off after
one of dem, it would have been better for her. O, honey,
'long dem times, I used to rave and toss like a bull in a
net — I did so!

“Well, honey, I was n't what I was. I got cross and
ugly. Miss Harrit, she grew a great Christian, and joined
de church, and used to have heaps of ministers and
elders at her house; and some on 'em used to try and talk
to me. I told 'em I 'd seen enough of der old religion,
and I did n't want to hear no more. But Paul, he was a
Christian; and when he talked to me, I was quiet, like,
though I could n't be like what he was. Well, last, my
missis promised me one. She 'd give me my youngest
child, sure and certain. His name was Alfred. Well, dat
boy! — I loved dat child better dan any of de rest of 'em.
He was all I 'd got left to love; for, when he was a year old,
Paul's master moved away down to Louisiana, and took
him off, and I never heard no more of him. So it 'peared as
if dis yer child was all I had left. Well, he was a bright
boy. O, he was most uncommon! He was so handy to
anything, and saved me so many steps! O, honey, he had
such ways with him — dat boy! — would always make me
laugh. He took after larnin' mighty, and he larned himself
to read; and he 'd read de Bible to me, sometimes. I just
brought him up and teached him de best way I could. All
dat made me 'fraid for him was, dat he was so spirity.
I 's 'fraid 't would get him into trouble.

“He wan't no more spirity dan white folks would
like der chil'en fur to be. When white children holds up
der heads, and answers back, den de parents laugh, and
say, `He 's got it in him! He 's a bright one!' But, if
one of ourn does so, it 's a drefful thing. I was allers
talking to Alfred 'bout it, and telled him to keep humble.
It 'peared like there was so much in him, you could n't keep
it down. Laws, Miss Nina, folks may say what dey like
about de black folks, dey 'll never beat it out of my head;
— dere 's some on 'em can be as smart as any white folks,

if dey could have de same chance. How many white boys
did you ever see would take de trouble for to teach theirselves
to read? And dat 's what my Alfred did. Laws, I
had a mighty heap of comfort in him, 'cause I was thinkin'
to get my missis to let me hire my time; den I was
going to work over hours, and get money, and buy him;
because, you see, chile, I knowed he was too spirity for a
slave. You see he could n't learn to stoop; he would n't let
nobody impose on him; and he always had a word back
again to give anybody as good as dey sent. Yet, for
all dat, he was a dear, good boy to me; and when I used
to talk to him, and tell him dese things was dangerous,
he 'd always promise fur to be kerful. Well, things went
on pretty well while he was little, and I kept him with me
till he got to be about twelve or thirteen years old. He
used to wipe de dishes, and scour de knives, and black de
shoes, and such-like work. But, by and by, dey said it was
time dat he should go to de reg'lar work; an dat ar was de
time I felt feared. Missis had an overseer, and he was
real aggravating, and I felt feared dere 'd be trouble;
and sure enough dere was, too. Dere was always somethin'
brewing 'tween him and Alfred; and he was always
running to missis with tales, and I was talking to Alfred.
But 'peared like he aggravated de boy so, dat he could n't
do right. Well, one day, when I had been up to town
for an errand, I come home at night, and I wondered
Alfred did n't come home to his supper. I thought something
was wrong; and I went to de house, and dere sat
Miss Harrit by a table covered with rolls of money, and
dere she was a counting it.

“`Miss Harrit,' says I, `I can't find Alfred. An't you
seen him?' says I.

“At first she did n't answer, but went on counting —
fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three. Finally I spoke again.

“`I hope dere an't nothing happened to Alfred, Miss
Harrit?'

“She looked up, and says she to me,

“`Milly,' says she, `de fact is, Alfred has got too much
for me to manage, and I had a great deal of money offered
for him; and I sold him.'

“I felt something strong coming up in my throat, and I
just went up and took hold of her shoulders, and said I,

“`Miss Harrit, you took de money for thirteen of my
chil'en, and you promised me, sure enough, I should have
dis yer one. You call dat being a Christian?' says I.

“`Why,' says she, `Milly, he an't a great way off; you
can see him about as much. It 's only over to Mr. Jones's
plantation. You can go and see him, and he can come and
see you. And you know you did n't like the man who had
the care of him here, and thought he was always getting
him into trouble.'

“`Miss Harrit,' says I, `you may cheat yourself saying
dem things; but you don't cheat me, nor de Lord neither.
You folks have de say all on your side, with your ministers
preaching us down out of de Bible; you won't teach us to
read. But I 'm going straight to de Lord with dis yer
case. I tell you, if de Lord is to be found, I 'll find him;
and I 'll ask him to look on 't,—de way you 've been treating
me, — selling my chil'en, all the way 'long, to pay for your
chil'en, and now breaking your word to me, and taking dis
yer boy, de last drop of blood in my heart! I 'll pray de
Lord to curse every cent of dat ar money to you and your
chil'en!'

“Dat ar was de way I spoke to her, child. I was poor,
ignorant cretur, and did n't know God, and my heart was like
a red-hot coal. I turned and walked right straight out from
her. I did n't speak no more to her, and she did n't speak
no more to me. And when I went to bed at night, dar,
sure 'nough, was Alfred's bed in de corner, and his Sunday
coat hanging up over it, and his Sunday shoes I had bought
for him with my own money; 'cause he was a handsome
boy, and I wanted him always to look nice. Well, so, come
Sunday morning, I took his coat and his shoes, and made
a bundle of 'em, and I took my stick, and says I, `I 'll just

go over to Jones's place and see what has 'come of Alfred.
All de time, I had n't said a word to missis, nor she to
me. Well, I got about half-way over to de place, and dere
I stopped under a big hickory-tree to rest me a bit, and I
looked along and seed some one a coming; and pretty soon
I knowed it was Huldah. She was one that married Paul's
cousin, and she lived on Jones's place. And so I got up
and went to meet her, and told her I was going over to see
'bout Alfred.

“`Lord!' says she, `Milly, have n't you heard dat
Alfred 's dead?'

“Well, Miss Nina, it seemed as if my heart and everything
in it stopped still. And said I, `Huldah, has dey
killed him?'

“And said she, `Yes.' And she told me it was dis yer
way: Dat Stiles — he dat was Jones's overseer — had
heard dat Alfred was dreadful spirity; and when boys
is so, sometimes dey aggravates 'em to get 'em riled,
and den dey whips 'em to break 'em in. So Stiles, when
he was laying off Alfred's task, was real aggravating to him;
and dat boy — well, he answered back, just as he allers
would be doing, 'cause he was smart, and it 'peared like he
could n't keep it in. And den dey all laughed round dere,
and den Stiles was mad, and swore he 'd whip him; and
den Alfred, he cut and run. And den Stiles he swore
awful at him, and he told him to `come here, and he 'd give
him hell, and pay him de cash.' Dem is de very words he
said to my boy. And Alfred said he would n't come back;
he was n't going to be whipped. And just den young
Master Bill come along, and wanted to know what was de
matter. So Stiles told him, and he took out his pistol, and
said, `Here, young dog, if you don't come back before I
count five, I 'll fire!'

“`Fire ahead!' says Alfred; 'cause, you see, dat boy
never knowed what fear was. And so he fired. And Huldah
said he just jumped up and give one scream, and fell
flat. And dey run up to him, and he was dead; 'cause,

you see, de bullet went right through his heart. Well, dey
took off his jacket and looked, but it wan't of no use; his
face settled down still. And Huldah said dat dey just dug
a hole and put him in. Nothing on him — nothing round
him — no coffin; like he 'd been a dog. Huldah showed
me de jacket. Dere was de hole, cut right round in it,
like it was stamped, and his blood running out on it. I
did n't say a word. I took up de jacket, and wrapped it up
with his Sunday clothes, and I walked straight — straight
home. I walked up into missis' room, and she was dressed
for church, sure enough, and sat dere reading her Bible.
I laid it right down under her face, dat jacket. `You see
dat hole!' said I; `you see dat blood! Alfred 's killed!
You killed him; his blood be on you and your chil'en!
O, Lord God in heaven, hear me, and render unto her
double!'”

Nina drew in her breath hard, with an instinctive shudder.
Milly had drawn herself up, in the vehemence of her narration,
and sat leaning forward, her black eyes dilated, her
strong arms clenched before her, and her powerful frame expanding
and working with the violence of her emotion.
She might have looked, to one with mythological associations,
like the figure of a black marble Nemesis in a trance of wrath.
She sat so for a few minutes, and then her muscles relaxed,
her eyes gradually softened; she looked tenderly, but solemnly,
down on Nina. “Dem was awful words, chile; but
I was in Egypt den. I was wandering in de wilderness of
Sinai. I had heard de sound of de trumpet, and de voice of
words; but, chile, I had n't seen de Lord. Well — I went
out, and I did n't speak no more to Miss Harrit. Dere was
a great gulf fixed 'tween us; and dere did n't no words
pass over it. I did my work — I scorned not to do it; but I
did n't speak to her. Den it was, chile, dat I thought of what
my mother told me, years ago; it came to me, all fresh —
`Chile, when trouble comes, you ask de Lord to help you;'
and I saw dat I had n't asked de Lord to help me; and
now, says I to myself, de Lord can't help me; 'cause he

could n't bring back Alfred, no way you could fix it; and
yet I wanted to find de Lord, 'cause I was so tossed up
and down. I wanted just to go and say, `Lord, you see
what dis woman has done.' I wanted to put it to him, if
he 'd stand up for such a thing as that. Lord, how de
world, and everything, looked to me in dem times! Everything
goin' on in de way it did; and dese yer Christians,
dat said dat dey was going into de kingdom, doing as
dey did! I tell you, I sought de Lord early and late.
Many nights I have been out in de woods and laid on de
ground till morning, calling and crying, and 'peared like
nobody heerd me. O, how strange it used to look, when I
looked up to de stars! winking at me, so kind of still and
solemn, but never saying a word! Sometimes I got dat
wild, it seemed as if I could tear a hole through de sky,
'cause I must find God; I had an errand to him, and I
must find him.

“Den I heard 'em read out de Bible, 'bout how de
Lord met a man on a threshing-floor, and I thought maybe
if I had a threshing-floor he would come to me. So I
threshed down a place just as hard as I could under de
trees; and den I prayed dere — but he did n't come.
Den dere was coming a great camp-meeting; and I
thought I 'd go and see if I could find de Lord dere;
because, you see, missis, she let her people go Sunday to
de camp-meeting. Well, I went into de tents and heerd
dem sing; and I went afore de altar, and I heerd preaching;
but it 'peared like it was no good. It did n't touch
me nowhere; and I could n't see nothing to it. I heerd
'em read out of de Bible, `O, dat I knew where I might
find him. I would come even to his seat. I would order
my cause before him. I would fill my mouth with arguments;'
and I thought, sure enough, dat ar 's just what I
want. Well, came on dark night, and dey had all de
camp-fires lighted up, and dey was singing de hymns
round and round, and I went for to hear de preaching.
And dere was a man — pale, lean man he was, with

black eyes and black hair. Well, dat ar man, he preached
a sermon, to be sure, I never shall forget. His text was,
`He that spared not his own Son, but freely delivered him
up for us all, how shall he not with him freely give us all
things?' Well, you see, the first sound of dis took me,
because I 'd lost my son. And the man, he told us who
de Son of God was, — Jesus, — O, how sweet and beautiful
he was! How he went round doing for folks. O, Lord,
what a story dat ar was! And, den, how dey took him,
and put de crown of thorns on his head, and hung him up
bleeding, bleeding, and bleeding! God so loved us dat
he let his own dear Son suffer all dat for us. Chile, I got
up, and I went to de altar, and I kneeled down with de
mourners; and I fell flat on my face, and dey said I was
in a trance. Maybe I was. Where I was, I don't know;
but I saw de Lord! Chile, it seemed as if my very heart
was still. I saw him, suffering, bearing with us, year in
and year out — bearing — bearing — bearing so patient!
'Peared like, it wan't just on de cross; but bearing always,
everywhar! O, chile, I saw how he loved us! — us all —
all — every one on us! — we dat hated each other so!
'Peared like he was using his heart up for us, all de time —
bleedin' for us like he did on Calvary, and willin' to bleed!
O, chile, I saw what it was for me to be hatin', like I 'd
hated. `O, Lord,' says I, `I give up! O, Lord, I never see
you afore! I did n't know. Lord, I 's a poor sinner! I
won't hate no more!' And O, chile, den dere come such a
rush of love in my soul! Says I, `Lord, I ken love even de
white folks!' And den came another rush; and says I, `Yes,
Lord, I love poor Miss Harrit, dat 's sole all my chil'en, and
been de death of my poor Alfred! I loves her.' Chile, I
overcome — I did so — I overcome by de blood of de
Lamb — de Lamb! — Yes, de Lamb, chile! — 'cause if he 'd
been a lion I could a kept in; 't was de Lamb dat overcome.

“When I come to, I felt like a chile. I went home to
Miss Harrit; and I had n't spoke peaceable to her since

Alfred died. I went in to her. She 'd been sick, and she
was in her room, looking kinder pale and yaller, poor thing;
'cause her son, honey, he got drunk and 'bused her awful.
I went in, and says I, `O, Miss Harrit, I 's seen de Lord!
Miss Harrit, I an't got no more hard feelin's; I forgive ye,
and loves ye with all my heart, just as de Lord does.'
Honey, ye ought to see how dat woman cried! Says she,
`Milly, I 's a great sinner.' Says I, `Miss Harrit, we 's
sinners, both on us, but de Lord gives hisself for us both;
and if he loves us poor sinners, we must n't be hard on each
other. Ye was tempted, honey,' says I (for you see I felt
like makin' scuses for her); `but de Lord Jesus has got a
pardon for both on us.'

“After dat, I did n't have no more trouble with Miss
Harrit. Chile, we was sisters in Jesus. I bore her burdens,
and she bore mine. And, dear, de burdens was heavy;
for her son he was brought home a corpse; he shot hisself
right through de heart, trying to load a gun when he was
drunk. O, chile, I thought den how I 'd prayed de Lord to
render unto her double; but I had a better mind den. Ef I
could have brought poor Mas'r George to life, I 'd a done it;
and I held de poor woman's head on my arm all dat ar
night, and she a screamin' every hour. Well, dat ar took
her down to de grave. She did n't live much longer; but
she was ready to die. She sent and bought my daughter
Lucy's son, dis here Tom, and gin him to me. Poor thing!
she did all she could.

“I watched with her de night she died. O, Miss Nina,
if ever ye 're tempted to hate anybody, think how 't 'll be
with 'em when dey comes to die.

“She died hard, poor thing! and she was cast down
'bout her sins. `O, Milly,' says she, `the Lord and you
may forgive me, but I can't forgive myself.'

“And, says I to her, `O, missis, don't think of it no more;
de Lord's hid it in his own heart!' O, but she struggled
long, honey; she was all night dyin', and 't was `Milly!
Milly!' all the time; `O, Milly, stay with me!'

“And, chile, I felt I loved her like my own soul; and
when de day broke de Lord set her free, and I laid her
down like she 'd been one o' my babies. I took up her
poor hand. It was warm, but the strength was all gone out
on 't; and, `O,' I thought, `ye poor thing, how could I
ever have hated ye so?' Ah, chile, we must n't hate nobody;
we 's all poor creaturs, and de dear Lord he loves
us all.”