I turned my eyes upon him, and, I fear, there was anything but a Christian spirit beaming therefrom. He had touched a chord in my heart which was sacred to memory, love, and silence. My mother! Could I bear to have her name and her sorrow thus rudely spoken of? Oh, God, what fierce and fiendish feelings did the recollection of her agony arouse? With burning head and thorn-pierced heart, I turned back a blotted page in life. Again, with horror stirring my blood, did I see her in that sweat of mortal agony, and hear that shriek that rung from her soul! Oh, God, these memories are a living torture to me, even now. But though Nace had touched the tenderest, sorest part of my heart, I said nothing to him. The strange workings of my countenance attracted Amy's attention, and, coming up to me, with an innocent air, she asked: "What is the matter, Ann? Has anything happened to you?" These questions, put by a simple child, one, too, whose own young life had been deeply acquainted with grief, were too much for my assumed stolidity. Tears were the only reply I could make. The child regarded me curiously, and the expression, "poor thing," burst from her lips. I felt grateful for even her sympathy, and put my hand out to her. She grasped it, and, leaning close to me, said: "Don't cry, Ann; me is sorry fur you. Don't cry any more." Poor thing, she could feel sympathy; she, who was so loaded with trouble, whose existence had none of the freshness and vernal beauty of youth, but was seared and blighted like age, held in the depths of her heart a pure drop of genuine sympathy, which she freely offered me. Oh, did not my selfishness stand rebuked. Looking out of the window, far down the path that wound to the spring, I descried the fair form of the young John, advancing toward the house. Pale and pure, with his blue eyes pensively looking up to heaven, an air of peaceful thought and subdued emotion was breathing from his very form. When I looked at him, he suggested the idea of serenity. There was that about him which, like the moonlight, inspired calm. He was walking more rapidly than I had ever seen him; but the pallor of his cheek, and the clear, cold blue of his heaven-lit eye, harmonized but poorly with the jarring discords of life. I thought of the pure, passionless apostle John, whom Christ so loved? And did I not dream that this youth, too, had on earth a mission of love to perform? Was he not one of the sacred chosen? He came walking slowly, as if he were communing with some invisible presence. "Thar comes young Masser, and I is glad, kase he looks so good like. I does lub him," said Amy. "Now, I is gwine fur to tell Masser, and he will gib you a beatin', nigger-gal, for sayin' you lub a white gemman," replied the sardonic Nace. "Oh, please don't tell on me. I did not mean any harm," and she burst into tears, well-knowing that a severe whipping would be the reward of her construed impertinence.