Harry hesitated for a moment, watched master’s countenance doubtingly, as if questioning the singular command.

“Fear not! nobody will hurt you,” continues Rosebrook.

“Master never had a bad intention,” thinks Harry; “I know he would not harm me; and then missus is so good.”  Slowly and nervously he proceeds, and on reaching the door hears a familiar “come in” answering his nervous rap.  The door opened into a neat little room, with carpet and chairs, a mahogany bureau and prints, all so neatly arranged, and wearing such an air of cleanliness.  No sooner has he advanced beyond the threshold than the emaciated figure of a black sister vaults into his arms, crying, “Oh Harry!  Harry!  Harry!-my dear husband!” She throws her arms about his neck, and kisses, and kisses him, and buries her tears of joy in his bosom.  How she pours out her soul’s love!-how, in rapturous embraces, her black impulses give out the purest affection!

“And you!-you!-you!-my own dear Jane!  Is it you?  Has God commanded us to meet once more, to be happy once more, to live as heaven hath ordained us to live?” he returns, as fervently and affectionately he holds her in his arms, and returns her token of love.  “Never! never!  I forget you, never!  By night and by day I have prayed the protecting hand of Providence to guide you through life’s trials.  How my heart has yearned to meet you in heaven! happy am I we have met once more on earth; yea, my soul leaps with joy.  Forgive them, Father, forgive them who separate us on earth, for heaven makes the anointed!” And while they embrace thus fondly, their tears mingling with joy, children, recognising a returned father as he entered the door, are clinging at his feet beseechingly.  He is their father;—­how like children they love!  “Sam, Sue, and Beckie, too!” he says, as one by one he takes them in his arms and kisses them.  But there are two more, sombre and strange.  He had caught the fourth in his arms, unconsciously.  “Ah, Jane!” he exclaims, turning toward her, his face filled with grief and chagrin, “they are not of me, Jane!” He still holds the little innocent by the hand, as nervously he waits her reply.  It is not guilt, but shame, with which she returns an answer.

“It was not my sin, Harry!  It was him that forced me to live with another,—­that lashed me when I refused, and, bleeding, made me obey the will,” she returns, looking at him imploringly.  Virtue is weaker than the lash; none feel it more than the slave.  She loved Harry, she followed him with her thoughts; but it was the Christian that reduced her to the level of the brute.  Laying her coloured hand upon his shoulder, she besought his forgiveness, as God was forgiving.