right gently on the almost motionless bosom, kissing the crimsoning cheek, and lisping rather than speaking, “Mother, mother, oh mother!-it’s only me.”  And then the wet courses on her cheeks told how the fountain of her soul had overflown.  Calmly and vacantly the woman gazed on the fair girl, with whom she had been left alone.  Then she raised her left hand to her brow, sighed, and seemed sinking into a tranquil sleep.  “Mother! mother!  I am once more with my mother!” again ejaculates the fair girl, sobbing audibly; “do you not know me, mother?” Clotilda started as if suddenly surprised.  “Do I dream?” she muttered, raising herself on her elbow, as her great soft eyes wandered about the room.  She would know who called her mother. “’Tis me,” said the fair girl, returning her glances, “do you not know your Annette-your slave child?” Indeed the fair girl was not of that bright countenance she had anticipated meeting, for though the punishment had little soiled her flesh the dagger of disgrace had cut deep into her heart, and spread its poison over her soul.  “This my Annette!” exclaimed Clotilda, throwing her arms about the fair girl’s neck, drawing her frantically to her bosom, and bathing her cheeks with her tears of joy.  “Yes, yes, ’tis my long-lost child; ’tis she for whom my soul has longed-God has been merciful, rescued her from the yawning death of slavery, and given her back to her mother!  Oh, no, I do not dream-it is my child,—­my Annette!” she continued.  Long and affectionately did they mingle their tears and kisses.  And now a fond mother’s joy seemed complete, a child’s sorrow ended, and a happy family were made happier.  Again the family gathered into the room, where, as of one accord, they poured out their affectionate congratulations.  One after another were the children enjoined to greet Annette, kiss her, and call her sister.  To them the meeting was as strange as to the parents it was radiant of joy.  “Mother!” said the little boy, as he took Annette by the hand and called her sister, and kissed her as she kissed him, “was you married before you was married to father?” The affectionate mother had no answer to make; she might have found one in the ignominy of the slave world.  And now, when the measure of joy seemed full-when the bitterness of the past dwindled away like a dream, and when the future like a beacon hung out its light of promise,—­Clotilda drew from a small workstand a discoloured paper written over in Greek characters, scarce intelligible.  “Annette!” said she, “my mother gave me this when last I saw her.  The chains were then about her hands, and she was about to be led away to the far south slave market:  by it did I discover my history.”  Here she unfolded its defaced pages, lifted her eyes upwards invokingly, and continued—­“To speak the crimes of great men is to hazard an oblivion for yourself, to bring upon you the indifference of the multitude; but great men are often greatest in crime-for so it proved with those who completed my mother’s