“Ellen, this is the secret you have promised grandmother never to tell.  If you ever speak of it to any body, they will never let you see your grandmother again, and your mother can never come to Brooklyn.”  “Uncle,” she replied, “I will never tell.”  He told her she might stay with me; and when he had gone, I took her in my arms and told her I was a slave, and that was the reason she must never say she had seen me.  I exhorted her to be a good child, to try to please the people where she was going, and that God would raise her up friends.  I told her to say her prayers, and remember always to pray for her poor mother, and that God would permit us to meet again.  She wept, and I did not check her tears.  Perhaps she would never again have a chance to pour her tears into a mother’s bosom.  All night she nestled in my arms, and I had no inclination to slumber.  The moments were too precious to lose any of them.  Once, when I thought she was asleep, I kissed her forehead softly, and she said, “I am not asleep, dear mother.”

Before dawn they came to take me back to my den.  I drew aside the window curtain, to take a last look of my child.  The moonlight shone on her face, and I bent over her, as I had done years before, that wretched night when I ran away.  I hugged her close to my throbbing heart; and tears, too sad for such young eyes to shed, flowed down her cheeks, as she gave her last kiss, and whispered in my ear, “Mother, I will never tell.”  And she never did.

When I got back to my den, I threw myself on the bed and wept there alone in the darkness.  It seemed as if my heart would burst.  When the time for Ellen’s departure drew nigh, I could hear neighbors and friends saying to her, “Good by, Ellen.  I hope your poor mother will find you out. Won’t you be glad to see her!” She replied, “Yes, ma’am;” and they little dreamed of the weighty secret that weighed down her young heart.  She was an affectionate child, but naturally very reserved, except with those she loved, and I felt secure that my secret would be safe with her.  I heard the gate close after her, with such feelings as only a slave mother can experience.  During the day my meditations were very sad.  Sometimes I feared I had been very selfish not to give up all claim to her, and let her go to Illinois, to be adopted by Mrs. Sands’s sister.  It was my experience of slavery that decided me against it.  I feared that circumstances might arise that would cause her to be sent back.  I felt confident that I should go to New York myself; and then I should be able to watch over her, and in some degree protect her.

Dr. Flint’s family knew nothing of the proposed arrangement till after Ellen was gone, and the news displeased them greatly.  Mrs. Flint called on Mrs. Sands’s sister to inquire into the matter.  She expressed her opinion very freely as to the respect Mr. Sands showed for his wife, and for his own character, in acknowledging those “young niggers.”  And as for sending Ellen away, she pronounced it to be just as much stealing as it would be for him to come and take a piece of furniture out of her parlor.  She said her daughter was not of age to sign the bill of sale, and the children were her property; and when she became of age, or was married, she could take them, wherever she could lay hands on them.