My grandmother had, as much as possible, been a mother to her orphan grandchildren.  By perseverance and unwearied industry, she was now mistress of a snug little home, surrounded with the necessaries of life.  She would have been happy could her children have shared them with her.  There remained but three children and two grandchildren, all slaves.  Most earnestly did she strive to make us feel that it was the will of God:  that He had seen fit to place us under such circumstances; and though it seemed hard, we ought to pray for contentment.

It was a beautiful faith, coming from a mother who could not call her children her own.  But I, and Benjamin, her youngest boy, condemned it.  We reasoned that it was much more the will of God that we should be situated as she was.  We longed for a home like hers.  There we always found sweet balsam for our troubles.  She was so loving, so sympathizing!  She always met us with a smile, and listened with patience to all our sorrows.  She spoke so hopefully, that unconsciously the clouds gave place to sunshine.  There was a grand big oven there, too, that baked bread and nice things for the town, and we knew there was always a choice bit in store for us.

But, alas!  Even the charms of the old oven failed to reconcile us to our hard lot.  Benjamin was now a tall, handsome lad, strongly and gracefully made, and with a spirit too bold and daring for a slave.  My brother William, now twelve years old, had the same aversion to the word master that he had when he was an urchin of seven years.  I was his confidant.  He came to me with all his troubles.  I remember one instance in particular.  It was on a lovely spring morning, and when I marked the sunlight dancing here and there, its beauty seemed to mock my sadness.  For my master, whose restless, craving, vicious nature roved about day and night, seeking whom to devour, had just left me, with stinging, scorching words; words that scathed ear and brain like fire.  O, how I despised him!  I thought how glad I should be, if some day when he walked the earth, it would open and swallow him up, and disencumber the world of a plague.

When he told me that I was made for his use, made to obey his command in every thing; that I was nothing but a slave, whose will must and should surrender to his, never before had my puny arm felt half so strong.

So deeply was I absorbed in painful reflections afterwards, that I neither saw nor heard the entrance of any one, till the voice of William sounded close beside me.  “Linda,” said he, “what makes you look so sad?  I love you.  O, Linda, isn’t this a bad world?  Every body seems so cross and unhappy.  I wish I had died when poor father did.”

I told him that every body was not cross, or unhappy; that those who had pleasant homes, and kind friends, and who were not afraid to love them, were happy.  But we, who were slave-children, without father or mother, could not expect to be happy.  We must be good; perhaps that would bring us contentment.