Aunt Nancy was housekeeper and waiting-maid in Dr. Flint’s family.  Indeed, she was the factotum of the household.  Nothing went on well without her.  She was my mother’s twin sister, and, as far as was in her power, she supplied a mother’s place to us orphans.  I slept with her all the time I lived in my old master’s house, and the bond between us was very strong.  When my friends tried to discourage me from running away; she always encouraged me.  When they thought I had better return and ask my master’s pardon, because there was no possibility of escape, she sent me word never to yield.  She said if I persevered I might, perhaps, gain the freedom of my children; and even if I perished in doing it, that was better than to leave them to groan under the same persecutions that had blighted my own life.  After I was shut up in my dark cell, she stole away, whenever she could, to bring me the news and say something cheering.  How often did I kneel down to listen to her words of consolation, whispered through a crack!  “I am old, and have not long to live,” she used to say; “and I could die happy if I could only see you and the children free.  You must pray to God, Linda, as I do for you, that he will lead you out of this darkness.”  I would beg her not to worry herself on my account; that there was an end of all suffering sooner or later, and that whether I lived in chains or in freedom, I should always remember her as the good friend who had been the comfort of my life.  A word from her always strengthened me; and not me only.  The whole family relied upon her judgement, and were guided by her advice.  I had been in my cell six years when my grandmother was summoned to the bedside of this, her last remaining daughter.  She was very ill, and they said she would die.  Grandmother had not entered Dr. Flint’s house for several years.  They had treated her cruelly, but she thought nothing of that now.  She was grateful for permission to watch by the death-bed of her child.  They had always been devoted to each other; and now they sat looking into each other’s eyes, longing to speak of the secret that had weighed so much on the hearts of both.  My aunt had been stricken with paralysis.  She lived but two days, and the last day she was speechless.  Before she lost the power of utterance, she told her mother not to grieve if she could not speak to her; that she would try to hold up her hand; to let her know that all was well with her.  Even the hard-hearted doctor was a little softened when he saw the dying woman try to smile on the aged mother, who was kneeling by her side.  His eyes moistened for a moment, as he said she had always been a faithful servant, and they should never be able to supply her place.  Mrs. Flint took to her bed, quite overcome by the shock.  While my grandmother sat alone with the dead, the doctor came in, leading his youngest son, who had always been a great pet with aunt Nancy, and was much attached to her.  “Martha,” said he, “aunt Nancy loved this child, and when he comes where you are, I hope you will be kind to him, for her sake.”  She replied, “Your wife was my foster-child, Dr. Flint, the foster-sister of my poor Nancy, and you little know me if you think I can feel any thing but good will for her children.”