In one of these little tenements, in an old arm-chair, cushioned with shreds and patches, and set close into the chimney corner, sat a very old colored woman, with her shaking hands spread out to gather to her the warmth of the fire of fat lightwood splinters that blazed and crackled before her. The damp, chill wind whistled through every crevice and cranny of the rough, ill-matched boards of the door and the slight wall. The whole cabin was almost as airy as a corn crib. It was admirably built for ventilation, and was in the full enjoyment of it. The old woman, popularly supposed to be over a hundred, looked around at us, her face one mesh of wrinkles, her wool as white as snow, but she was wonderfully bright and cheery. She was a great sufferer from asthma and rheumatism, could not lie down in bed at all, but was confined to her chair night and day. She was one of those of whom I had been told as having a near acquaintance with her Lord as with a personal friend. “How are you to-day, Aunt July?” said my friend. “Howdy’, howdy’? I’se well, an’ glad to see you, honey; bress de Lawd.” “I’ve brought a friend with me to see you; a friend from over the sea.” “Bress you, honey, I’se glad to see you, too. De good Lawd sends his chilluns to look me up. He does so, ’cause he don’t ever forget me.” “The box has come, Aunt July, and I’m so sorry that there’s nothing in it at all that would fit you; nothing but children’s things.” “Bress de good Lawd, it’s a-comin’; I feel it’s a-comin’, but it wasn’t to come in dat ar box, sure enuff, honey.” “I did wish and pray for a warm woolen shawl to wrap around you at night when the fire goes down,” said the missionary lady, kindly. “You see,” turning to me, “the nights are quite cold this time of the year, and see how open the cabin is. If she could only lie down in bed and cover up warm, but she cannot, and she must suffer dreadfully when the fire goes out. I do wish so much that she had a shawl.” “Well, honey, you is kind to ole Aunty, an’ I’se thankful; but we wasn’t ’greed ’bout dat ar’, honey. You ask de Lawd for a shawl, an’ I ask for sumpin’ warm, wid sleeves in it, so’s not to slip off in de night when I falls asleep an’ de fiah done gone out.” “You see, I’se real glad when de sleep comes,” she said, looking at me; “I’se glad of de rest in sleep, but de fiah done go out. My son, he’s jest as good as he ken be to me, an’ he leaves heaps ob wood, but when I sleeps de fiah done go out. I ask de bressed Lawd to sen’ me sumpin’ with sleeves, so’s it would keep on when I’se sleepin’.”