Recently, at Little Rock, I was a guest for five days in the house of Rebecca. Her husband owned his home, together with two other places. Her only son and a son-in-law were teaching school, and she was mothering the two little girls of her deceased daughter. On the centre table were a large family Bible and a copy of Shakespeare, both rich in binding and illustration; and on the walls were some, not costly, but tasteful and suggestive pictures, one of which represented Abraham Lincoln, Charles Sumner and John Brown. Her deportment was that of a lady; her company enjoyable. She said she remembered well the time and the scene when she was taken from her mother. The screaming was yet ringing in her ears. She bore in mind the last words of her mother, as she put a little red flannel shawl round her neck: “God bless my child! God bless my child!” She had in memory also her own crying and bursting of heart. So, too, was fresh in her mind, her weeping of nights in the new home, until, upon the imperative chiding of master and mistress, she was obliged to repress that relief of hidden sorrow. Her young mistress, who was of about the same age, upon growing up, was sent to the High School of the city, and she herself was kept at home, and not allowed even to learn to read the Bible, out of which she was to be judged at the last day. She did experience a keen sense of injustice and of murmuring; but all of that she was obliged to suppress. But what had become of her mother? “After freedom,” twenty-one and a half years since the parting, she came over to look up the daughter. But how shall there be an unmistakable recognition? Col. Holly and his wife have both passed away. Fortunately, a woman, who came over with the family, still survived. She brought the mother to the home of Rebecca, and pointing to her said, “That is your daughter.” Then such hugging, kissing, and shouting of joy and weeping, as is the sensation of the neighborhood. I am sure that I never heard a daughter speak with more enthusiasm of love, concerning her mother, than did Mrs. Solomon. She thought she would have known her anyhow; and her mother half came to the same conclusion when with such accuracy she depicted the scene of the parting.