went down to receive my visitor, telling her that I was _very_ well, that the weather was _very_ warm, that I expected to be _very_ lonely without my husband, that her bonnet was _very_ pretty, that I didn’t think negroes as annoying and hateful as she did, after which she took her leave; and I went back to my room, this time locking the door and writing the first chapter of my book before the bell rang for dinner. To Bertha I imparted my secret, reading to her each page as I wrote it, and though she was not, perhaps, the most appreciating auditor one could have, she was certainly the most attentive and approving. It is true she objected to my describing myself as such a homely child. “Jest tell de truffe and done wid it,” she said; whereupon I assured her that I _had_ told the truth, and then she suggested that in order to make amends for my ugliness I should represent myself as having been “peart like and smart.” So, if the reader thinks I have made myself too precocious, the fault is chargeable to Bertha, for I did it to please her! For two weeks I wrote, scarcely allowing myself a moment’s rest, and Bertha, who, when she saw how it wore upon me, began at last to expostulate. “Thar wasn’t no ’casion,” she said, “to kill myself, when thar was heaps ’o niggers kickin’ round under foot, and if miss ’sisted on writin’ a book, why didn’t she make some dem lazy critters do it for her!” At the end of two weeks Richard returned, asking me as he looked in my face “what was the matter, and how I had spent my time?” Before I could answer, Bertha, who was quite incensed against my book, said, “she’s done writin’ a spellin’ book, or somethin’, and sits up ’most all night. I tell her how ’twill kill her, but she pay no ’tention!” The secret was out, and with many blushes I plead guilty, and producing my manuscript, watched Richard while he read it. Over the first chapter, where he thought I was going to die, he cried—or that is, tears came to his eyes; the third he skipped partially, the next entirely, and the next and the next (I hope the reader has not done likewise); but when he found Dr. Clayton he read every word, his forehead tying itself up in knots, which, however, cleared away the moment he came upon himself at the theatre, though I believe he didn’t feel much complimented by my description of his personal appearance!