After the departure of the friends who had been summoned to the reading of the will, and whose stay had been prolonged by the melancholy interest they felt in the unfortunate Emily, Mr. Faxon requested to see her, and was shown to her room.  She had just been restored to consciousness, by the assiduous efforts of her maids, as the good man entered.

“O, Mr. Faxon!” sobbed Emily, but she could articulate no more.  The terrible reality of her situation had entirely overcome her.

“Be comforted, my dear child,” said Mr. Faxon, affectionately, taking her hand.  “The ways of Providence are mysterious, and we must bend humbly to our lot.”

“I will try to be resigned to my fate, terrible as it is,” replied Emily, looking at the minister with a subdued expression, while hot tears poured down her cheeks.  “You will not forsake me, if all others do!”

“No, no, my dear child; it is my duty to wrestle with sorrow.  I have come to direct your thoughts to that better world, where the distinctions of caste do not exist.”

“O, that I could die!” murmured Emily, as a feeling of despair crept to her mind.

“Nay, child, you must not repine at the will of Heaven.  In God’s own good time He will call you hence.”

“I will not repine; but what a terrible life is before me!”

“The future is wisely concealed from us.  It is in the keeping of the Almighty.  He may have many years of happiness and usefulness in store for you.”

“But I am an outcast now,—­one whom all my former friends will despise,—­a slave!” replied Emily, covering her face with her hands, and sobbing convulsively.

“Nay, be calm; do not give way to such bitter thoughts.  This may be a deception, though, to be candid, I can scarcely see any reason to think so.”

Emily caught at the slight hope thus extended to her; her eyes brightened, and a little color returned to her pallid cheek.

“Heaven send that it may prove so!” said she; “for I cannot believe that he who taught me to call him by the endearing name of father; who watched so tenderly over my infancy, and guided my youthful heart so faithfully; who, an hour before he died, called me daughter, and blessed me with his dying breath,—­I cannot believe he has been so cruel to me!”

“It seems scarcely possible; but, my child, the ways of Providence are inscrutable.  Whatever afflictions visit us, they are ordered for our good.  Trust in God, my dear one, and all will yet be well.”

“I will, I will!  My father’s and your good instructions shall not be lost upon me, slave though I am. Dear father,” said she, and the tears blinded her,—­“I love his memory still, though every word of this hated will were true.  I ought not to repine, whatever be my future lot.  That he loved me as a daughter, I can never doubt; that he never told me I am a slave, I will forgive, for he meant it well.”

“I am glad to witness your Christian faith and patience in this painful event.  But, Emily, had you no intimation or suspicion of this trial before?”