boon.  I also felt quite sure that they would be made free.  With all these thoughts revolving in my mind, and seeing no other way of escaping the doom I so much dreaded, I made a headlong plunge.  Pity me, and pardon me, O virtuous reader!  You never knew what it is to be a slave; to be entirely unprotected by law or custom; to have the laws reduce you to the condition of a chattel, entirely subject to the will of another.  You never exhausted your ingenuity in avoiding the snares, and eluding the power of a hated tyrant; you never shuddered at the sound of his footsteps, and trembled within hearing of his voice.  I know I did wrong.  No one can feel it more sensibly than I do.  The painful and humiliating memory will haunt me to my dying day.  Still, in looking back, calmly, on the events of my life, I feel that the slave woman ought not to be judged by the same standard as others.

The months passed on.  I had many unhappy hours.  I secretly mourned over the sorrow I was bringing on my grandmother, who had so tried to shield me from harm.  I knew that I was the greatest comfort of her old age, and that it was a source of pride to her that I had not degraded myself, like most of the slaves.  I wanted to confess to her that I was no longer worthy of her love; but I could not utter the dreaded words.

As for Dr. Flint, I had a feeling of satisfaction and triumph in the thought of telling him.  From time to time he told me of his intended arrangements, and I was silent.  At last, he came and told me the cottage was completed, and ordered me to go to it.  I told him I would never enter it.  He said, “I have heard enough of such talk as that.  You shall go, if you are carried by force; and you shall remain there.”

I replied, “I will never go there.  In a few months I shall be a mother.”

He stood and looked at me in dumb amazement, and left the house without a word.  I thought I should be happy in my triumph over him.  But now that the truth was out, and my relatives would hear of it, I felt wretched.  Humble as were their circumstances, they had pride in my good character.  Now, how could I look at them in the face?  My self-respect was gone!  I had resolved that I would be virtuous, though I was a slave.  I had said, “Let the storm beat!  I will brave it till I die.”  And now, how humiliated I felt!

I went to my grandmother.  My lips moved to make confession, but the words stuck in my throat.  I sat down in the shade of a tree at her door and began to sew.  I think she saw something unusual was the matter with me.  The mother of slaves is very watchful.  She knows there is no security for her children.  After they have entered their teens she lives in daily expectation of trouble.  This leads to many questions.  If the girl is of a sensitive nature, timidity keeps her from answering truthfully, and this well-meant course has a tendency to drive her from maternal counsels.  Presently, in came my mistress, like a mad woman, and accused