I received a note from my brother William.  It was scarcely legible, and ran thus:  “Wherever you are, dear sister, I beg of you not to come here.  We are all much better off than you are.  If you come, you will ruin us all.  They would force you to tell where you had been, or they would kill you.  Take the advice of your friends; if not for the sake of me and your children, at least for the sake of those you would ruin.”

Poor William!  He also must suffer for being my brother.  I took his advice and kept quiet.  My aunt was taken out of jail at the end of a month, because Mrs. Flint could not spare her any longer.  She was tired of being her own housekeeper.  It was quite too fatiguing to order her dinner and eat it too.  My children remained in jail, where brother William did all he could for their comfort.  Betty went to see them sometimes, and brought me tidings.  She was not permitted to enter the jail; but William would hold them up to the grated window while she chatted with them.  When she repeated their prattle, and told me how they wanted to see their ma, my tears would flow.  Old Betty would exclaim, “Lors, chile! what’s you crying ’bout?  Dem young uns vil kill you dead.  Don’t be so chick’n hearted!  If you does, you vil nebber git thro’ dis world.”

Good old soul!  She had gone through the world childless.  She had never had little ones to clasp their arms round her neck; she had never seen their soft eyes looking into hers; no sweet little voices had called her mother; she had never pressed her own infants to her heart, with the feeling that even in fetters there was something to live for.  How could she realize my feelings?  Betty’s husband loved children dearly, and wondered why God had denied them to him.  He expressed great sorrow when he came to Betty with the tidings that Ellen had been taken out of jail and carried to Dr. Flint’s.  She had the measles a short time before they carried her to jail, and the disease had left her eyes affected.  The doctor had taken her home to attend to them.  My children had always been afraid of the doctor and his wife.  They had never been inside of their house.  Poor little Ellen cried all day to be carried back to prison.  The instincts of childhood are true.  She knew she was loved in the jail.  Her screams and sobs annoyed Mrs. Flint.  Before night she called one of the slaves, and said, “Here, Bill, carry this brat back to the jail.  I can’t stand her noise.  If she would be quiet I should like to keep the little minx.  She would make a handy waiting-maid for my daughter by and by.  But if she staid here, with her white face, I suppose I should either kill her or spoil her.  I hope the doctor will sell them as far as wind and water can carry them.  As for their mother, her ladyship will find out yet what she gets by running away.  She hasn’t so much feeling for her children as a cow has for its calf.  If she had, she would have come back long ago, to get them out of jail, and save all this expense and trouble.  The good-for-nothing hussy!  When she is caught, she shall stay in jail, in irons, for one six months, and then be sold to a sugar plantation.  I shall see her broke in yet.  What do you stand there for, Bill?  Why don’t you go off with the brat?  Mind, now, that you don’t let any of the niggers speak to her in the street!”