Mrs. Osgood.

  “And now behold him kneeling there,
   By the child’s side, in humble prayer;
   While the same sun-beam shines upon
   The guilty and the guiltless one;
   And hymns of joy proclaim through heaven,
   The triumph of a soul forgiven.”

        MOORE’S “Lalla ROOKH.”

“Mother, why does every one pass poor old Quady by without giving him even a smile?  Is not that the reason why he looks so sorrowful?  He looked so sad when I met him this afternoon, that I could not help holding out the daisies which I had gathered for you, towards him; and when he did not take them, but stood looking at me without speaking a word, I asked him if he did not want the flowers to carry to his home, and put them into his hand; and when I had come up with the school-girls, who had run away when they saw him coming, I looked after him, and he was still standing by the road-side, with the flowers in his hand, watching us as we went up the street.  Perhaps he was resting a little, for it is a long way to the low home over the commons.”

“Quady, my dear, no doubt feels that he is alone in the world, for he is the only one that is left of a large tribe of Indians; all of his kind are gone, and are buried, no one but himself knows where.  He does not look upon the pale faces as brothers, though they treat him kindly.  He feels that wrong has been shown his ancestors at their hands.  I am glad, my child, that you were kind to the Indian.”

“Yes, mother, I love everybody; but I think I love those best who look as if no one cared for them.  I suppose everybody loves poor Quady, only they forget to let him know it.”

“You like dat old Ingin, Sea-flower? why, he almost as black as Bingo hesef.”

“Do you think I do not love you, Vingo, because you are black?  You are always good to me, and what would I do without you to take me to the shore, whenever I like to go?”

“O, little missy, I tink you can sympetize wid old black Bingo; but den, ebry body not like you; you’s one ob de Lord’s chilen hesef.”

“We are all the Lord’s children, Vingo,” said Mrs. Grosvenor; “and we should walk in the paths of righteousness, that we may be worthy of his name.  You may go, now.”

“What does Vingo mean, mother? he talks so strangely sometimes about my being left here by the Lord, and goes on muttering something to himself, which I cannot understand, and laughs as if he was very happy.”

“It is his way of expressing himself, my dear; the negroes are a peculiar race.”

“Yes, I think they are; I like their ways, they are always so kind.  Are not their dispositions better than those of some white people?  I never heard of a black man being cruel to any one, but I have seen the prints of a whip-lash on Vingo’s neck, where he said his old massa used to whip him; and I asked him many times over, if he was sure it was a white man who whipped him, and he said yes, he was sure, for he remembers he used to wish white folks were black, so they could not tell which were the negroes.”