had saved a good deal of money during his life-time, and this, with his legacy, made me independent. I remained in the South but a short time. For two years after his death I sojourned in the North, sometimes hiring myself out as chambermaid, and at others living quietly on my means; but I must work. In activity I stifle memory, and for awhile am happy, or, at least, tranquil." After this synopsis of her history, Louise was silent. She bent her head upon her hand, and mused abstractedly. "I think, Henry, you are a slave," I said, as I turned my eye upon his mournful face. "Yes, and to a hard master," was the quick reply; "but he has promised me I shall buy myself. I am to pay him one thousand dollars, in instalments of one hundred dollars each. Three of these instalments I have already paid." "Does he receive any hire for your services at this hotel?" "Oh yes, the proprietor pays him one hundred and fifty dollars a year for me." "How have you made the money?" "By working at night and on holidays, going on errands, and doing little jobs for gentlemen boarding in the house. Sometimes I get little donations from kind-hearted persons, Christmas gifts in money, &c. All of it is saved." "You must work very hard." "Oh yes, it's very little sleep I ever get. How old would you think me?" "Thirty-five," I answered, as I looked at his furrowed face. "That is what almost every one says; yet I am only twenty-five. All these wrinkles and hard spots are from work." "You ought to rest awhile," I ventured to suggest. "Oh, I'll wait until I am my own master; then I'll rest." "But you may die before that time comes." "So I may, so I may," he repeated despondingly. "All my family have died early and from over-work. Sometimes I think freedom too great a blessing for me ever to realize." He brushed a tear from his eye with the back of his hand. I looked at him, so young and energetic, yet lonely. Noble and handsome was his face, despite the lines of care and labor. What wonder that a soft feeling took possession of my heart, particularly when I remembered how he had gladdened my imprisonment with kind messages and the gift of flowers. I did but follow an irrepressible and spontaneous impulse, when I said with earnestness, "Do not work so hard, Henry." He looked me full in the face. Why did my eye droop beneath that warm, inquiring gaze; and why did he ask so low, in a half whisper: "Should I die who will grieve for me?"