Another specimen of the same kind was related to the writer by a slave-woman who had been through the whole painful experience of a slave’s life. She was originally a young girl of pleasing exterior and gentle nature, carefully reared as a seamstress and nurse to the children of a family in Virginia, and attached, with all the warmth of her susceptible nature, to these children. Although one of the tenderest of mothers when the writer knew her, yet she assured the writer that she had never loved a child of her own as she loved the dear little young mistress who was her particular charge. Owing, probably, to some pecuniary difficulty in the family, this girl, whom we will call Louisa, was sold, to go on to a Southern plantation. She has often described the scene when she was forced into a carriage, and saw her dear young mistress leaning from the window, stretching her arms towards her, screaming, and calling her name, with all the vehemence of childish grief. She was carried in a coffle, and sold as cook on a Southern plantation. With the utmost earnestness of language she has described to the writer her utter loneliness, and the distress and despair of her heart, in this situation, parted forever from all she held dear on earth, without even the possibility of writing letters or sending messages, surrounded by those who felt no kind of interest in her, and forced to a toil for which her more delicate education had entirely unfitted her. Under these circumstances, she began to believe that it was for some dreadful sin she had thus been afflicted. The course of her mind after this may be best told in her own simple words: “After that, I began to feel awful wicked,—O, so wicked, you’ve no idea! I felt so wicked that my sins seemed like a load on me, and I went so heavy all the day! I felt so wicked that I didn’t feel worthy to pray in the house, and I used to go way off in the lot and pray. At last, one day, when I was praying, the Lord he came and spoke to me.” “The Lord spoke to you?” said the writer; “what do you mean, Louisa?” With a face of the utmost earnestness, she answered, “Why, ma’am, the Lord Jesus he came and spoke to me, you know; and I never, till the last day of my life, shall forget what he said to me.” “What was it?” said the writer. “He said, ‘Fear not, my little one; thy sins are forgiven thee;’” and she added to this some verses, which the writer recognized as those of a Methodist hymn. Being curious to examine more closely this phenomenon, the author said, “You mean that you dreamed this, Louisa.” With an air of wounded feeling, and much earnestness, she answered, “O no, Mrs. Stowe; that never was a dream; you’ll never make me believe that.”