She showed him her wrists where they had been worn by the irons, and her back scarred by the whip, and she told him of cruelties that we may not repeat here.  She talked with him as if he were a man, and not a child; and as he listened his heart and mind seemed to reach forward, and he became almost a man in thought.  He seemed to live whole years in those few days that he talked with his mother.  It was here that the fearful fact dawned upon him as it never had before. He was a slave!  He had no control over his own person or actions, but he belonged soul and body to another man, who had power to control him in everything.  And this would not have been so irksome had it been a person that he loved, but Master Stamford he hated.  He never met him but to be called by some foul epithet, or booted out of the way.  He had no choice whom he would serve, and there would be no end to the thankless servitude but death.

“Mother,” said the boy, “what have we done that we should be treated so much worse than other people?”

“Nothing, my child, nothing.  They say there is a God who has ordered all this, but I don’t know about that.”  She stopped; her mother’s heart forbade her to teach her child infidel principles, and she went on in a better strain of reasoning.  “Perhaps he allows all this, to try if we will be good whether or no; but I am sure he cannot be pleased with the white folk’s cruelty toward us, and they’ll all have to suffer for it some day.”

Then there was a long pause, when both mother and son seemed to be thinking sad, sad thoughts.  Finally the mother broke the silence by saying:  “Well, here we are, and the great question is how to make the best of it, if there is any best about it.”

“I know what I’ll do, mother,” said Lewis earnestly, “I’ll run away when I’m old enough.”

“I hope you may get out of this terrible bondage, my child,” said the mother; “but you had better keep that matter to yourself at present.  It will be a long time before you are old enough.  There is one thing about it, if you’re going to be a free man, you’ll want to know how to read.”

Lewis’s heart was full again, and he told his mother the whole story of the primer.

“And did Missy Katy never ask about it afterward?” inquired the mother.

“No, she never has said a word about it.”

“O well, she don’t care.  There are some young missies with tender hearts that do take a good deal of pains to teach poor slaves to read; but she isn’t so, nor any of massa’s family, if he is a minister.  He don’t care any more about us than he does about his horses.  You musn’t wait for any of them; but there’s Sam Tyler down to Massa Pond’s, he can read, and if you can get him to show you some, without letting massa know it, that’ll help you, and then you must try by yourself as hard as you can.”

Thus did the poor slave mother talk with her child, trying to implant in his heart an early love for knowledge.