For two years my daughter and I supported ourselves comfortably in Boston.  At the end of that time, my brother William offered to send Ellen to a boarding school.  It required a great effort for me to consent to part with her, for I had few near ties, and it was her presence that made my two little rooms seem home-like.  But my judgment prevailed over my selfish feelings.  I made preparations for her departure.  During the two years we had lived together I had often resolved to tell her something about her father; but I had never been able to muster sufficient courage.  I had a shrinking dread of diminishing my child’s love.  I knew she must have curiosity on the subject, but she had never asked a question.  She was always very careful not to say any thing to remind me of my troubles.  Now that she was going from me, I thought if I should die before she returned, she might hear my story from some one who did not understand the palliating circumstances; and that if she were entirely ignorant on the subject, her sensitive nature might receive a rude shock.

When we retired for the night, she said, “Mother, it is very hard to leave you alone.  I am almost sorry I am going, though I do want to improve myself.  But you will write to me often; won’t you, mother?”

I did not throw my arms round her.  I did not answer her.  But in a calm, solemn way, for it cost me great effort, I said, “Listen to me, Ellen; I have something to tell you!” I recounted my early sufferings in slavery, and told her how nearly they had crushed me.  I began to tell her how they had driven me into a great sin, when she clasped me in her arms, and exclaimed, “O, don’t, mother!  Please don’t tell me any more.”

I said, “But, my child, I want you to know about your father.”

“I know all about it, mother,” she replied; “I am nothing to my father, and he is nothing to me.  All my love is for you.  I was with him five months in Washington, and he never cared for me.  He never spoke to me as he did to his little Fanny.  I knew all the time he was my father, for Fanny’s nurse told me so, but she said I must never tell any body, and I never did.  I used to wish he would take me in his arms and kiss me, as he did Fanny; or that he would sometimes smile at me, as he did at her.  I thought if he was my own father, he ought to love me.  I was a little girl then, and didn’t know any better.  But now I never think any thing about my father.  All my love is for you.”  She hugged me closer as she spoke, and I thanked God that the knowledge I had so much dreaded to impart had not diminished the affection of my child.  I had not the slightest idea she knew that portion of my history.  If I had, I should have spoken to her long before; for my pent-up feelings had often longed to pour themselves out to some one I could trust.  But I loved the dear girl better for the delicacy she had manifested towards her unfortunate mother.