This was joyful intelligence for me, and the reflection of hope gave a silver lining to the dark cloud of my life--faint, it is true, but still a silver lining. Taking a prospective glance at liberty, I consented to marry. The wedding was a great event in the family. The ceremony took place in the parlor, in the presence of the family and a number of guests. Mr. Garland gave me away, and the pastor, Bishop Hawks, performed the ceremony, who had solemnized the bridals of Mr. G.'s own children. The day was a happy one, but it faded all too soon. Mr. Keckley--let me speak kindly of his faults--proved dissipated, and a burden instead of a help-mate. More than all, I learned that he was a slave instead of a free man, as he represented himself to be. With the simple explanation that I lived with him eight years, let charity draw around him the mantle of silence. I went to work in earnest to purchase my freedom, but the years passed, and I was still a slave. Mr. Garland's family claimed so much of my attention--in fact, I supported them--that I was not able to accumulate anything. In the mean time Mr. Garland died, and Mr. Burwell, a Mississippi planter, came to St. Louis to settle up the estate. He was a kind-hearted man, and said I should be free, and would afford me every facility to raise the necessary amount to pay the price of my liberty. Several schemes were urged upon me by my friends. At last I formed a resolution to go to New York, state my case, and appeal to the benevolence of the people. The plan seemed feasible, and I made preparations to carry it out. When I was almost ready to turn my face northward, Mrs. Garland told me that she would require the names of six gentlemen who would vouch for my return, and become responsible for the amount at which I was valued. I had many friends in St. Louis, and as I believed that they had confidence in me, I felt that I could readily obtain the names desired. I started out, stated my case, and obtained five signatures to the paper, and my heart throbbed with pleasure, for I did not believe that the sixth would refuse me. I called, he listened patiently, then remarked: "Yes, yes, Lizzie; the scheme is a fair one, and you shall have my name. But I shall bid you good-by when you start." "Good-by for a short time," I ventured to add. "No, good-by for all time," and he looked at me as if he would read my very soul with his eyes. I was startled. "What do you mean, Mr. Farrow? Surely you do not think that I do not mean to come back?" "No." "No, what then?" "Simply this: you _mean_ to come back, that is, you _mean_ so _now_, but you never will. When you reach New York the abolitionists will tell you what savages we are, and they will prevail on you to stay there; and we shall never see you again." "But I assure you, Mr. Farrow, you are mistaken. I not only _mean_ to come back, but _will_ come back, and pay every cent of the twelve hundred dollars for myself and child."