“Great Heaven!” exclaimed Mrs. Wentworth, “my child cannot be dead!”

“Top a bit, mistis, an’ I will fix de little gal for you,” said the old negro, hobbling, to the bedside, with a small bottle filled with camphor in her hand.  “Dis stuff will bring her to.  Don’t be afeard, she ain’t dead.”

Pouring out some of the stimulant in one hand, the kind-hearted old woman bathed Ella’s face with it, and held the bottle to her nostrils, until a sigh from the child showed that she still lived.  After a few seconds she opened her eyes, and looked up to her mother, who was, bending with anxious countenance over her.

“Dar now,” said the old negro in a tone of satisfaction, “did not I tell you dat de sweet little child was libbing.”

“Thank you, old woman, God in Heaven bless you!” exclaimed Mrs. Wentworth, as she clapped the old woman’s hand in her own.

“Berry well, berry well,” was the answer of the negro, “you welcome misses.”

There, in the cabin of that good old slave, the soldier’s wife heard the first voice of kindness that had greeted her ears for months.  From the hands of a servile race she had received the first act of charity, and in a land like this.  In the performance of that kindness, the old slave had done more to elevate herself than all the philanthropists and abolitionists of the North could have done.  Could the cursed race, whose war upon the South have seen this act, they would have conceded to her people the justice of their right to slavery, when such a slave as this existed.

“What make you come to dis part ob town to-night, missis,” asked the negro, after a few moments of silence.

“Nothing, nothing, my good woman,” replied Mrs. Wentworth hastily.  She could not let a slave know of her trials and misery.

“Poh ting!” ejaculated the old woman in a compassionate tone, but too low for Mrs. Wentworth to hear her.  “I ‘spec her husband been treatin’ her bad.  Dem men behave berry bad sometime,” and with a sigh she resumed her silence.

The soldier’s wife sat by the bedside, on one of the rude chairs, that formed a portion of the furniture, and remained plunged in thought.  A deep sleep had overtaken Ella, although her breathing was heavy, and the fever raged with redoubled violence.

“Mother can’t I get something to eat?” asked her little son.  His words woke his mother from her thoughts, but before she could reply, the old negro had forestalled.

“Is it some ting you want to eat, my little darling,” she enquired, rising from her seat, and going to a little cupboard near the door of the room.

“Yes granny,” he answered, “I am quite hungry.”

“Bress your little heart,” she remarked, giving him a large piece of bread.  “Here is some ting to eat.”

Taking the child on her knees, she watched him until he had completed eating the food, when putting him down, she opened a trunk, and pulled out a clean white sheet, which she placed on a little mattress near the bed.