“I wish the past could be forgotten, and that we might never think of it,” said he; “and that Linda would come to supply her aunt’s place.  She would be worth more to us than all the money that could be paid for her.  I wish it for your sake also, Martha.  Now that Nancy is taken away from you, she would be a great comfort to your old age.”  He knew he was touching a tender chord.  Almost choking with grief, my grandmother replied, “It was not I that drove Linda away.  My grandchildren are gone; and of my nine children only one is left.  God help me!”

To me, the death of this kind relative was an inexpressible sorrow.  I knew that she had been slowly murdered; and I felt that my troubles had helped to finish the work.  After I heard of her illness, I listened constantly to hear what news was brought from the great house; and the thought that I could not go to her made me utterly miserable.  At last, as uncle Phillip came into the house, I heard some one inquire, “How is she?” and he answered, “She is dead.”  My little cell seemed whirling round, and I knew nothing more till I opened my eyes and found uncle Phillip bending over me.  I had no need to ask any questions.  He whispered, “Linda, she died happy.”  I could not weep.  My fixed gaze troubled him.  “Don’t look so” he said.  “Don’t add to my poor mother’s trouble.  Remember how much she has to bear, and that we ought to do all we can to comfort her.”  Ah, yes, that blessed old grandmother, who for seventy-three years had borne the pelting storms of a slave-mother’s life.  She did indeed need consolation!

Mrs. Flint had rendered her poor foster-sister childless, apparently without any compunction; and with cruel selfishness had ruined her health by years of incessant, unrequited toil, and broken rest.  But now she became very sentimental.  I suppose she thought it would be a beautiful illustration of the attachment existing between slaveholder and slave, if the body of her old worn-out servant was buried at her feet.  She sent for the clergyman and asked if he had any objection to burying aunt Nancy in the doctor’s family burial-place.  No colored person had ever been allowed interment in the white people’s burying-ground, and the minister knew that all the deceased of your family reposed together in the old graveyard of the slaves.  He therefore replied, “I have no objection to complying with your wish; but perhaps aunt Nancy’s mother may have some choice as to where her remains shall be deposited.”

It had never occurred to Mrs. Flint that slaves could have any feelings.  When my grandmother was consulted, she at once said she wanted Nancy to lie with all the rest of her family, and where her own old body would be buried.  Mrs. Flint graciously complied with her wish, though she said it was painful to her to have Nancy buried away from her.  She might have added with touching pathos, “I was so long used to sleep with her lying near me, on the entry floor.”