February first brought Matthias Jones. Father met him at the village, and our curiosity which was aroused regarding this new comer, was thoroughly gratified at his appearance. A better specimen of a southern negro was never seen. He was above the medium size, broad-shouldered; his hair thick and wooly, sprinkled with grey, and covering a large, flat surface on the top of his head. His nose was of extra size, mouth in proportion, and his eyes, which were not dull, expressed considerable feeling, and you would know when you looked at them he was honest. His gait was slow, slouchy as I called it, and, as he walked leisurely along the path, Ben whispered, "My soul, what feet!" Sure enough, they seemed to stretch back too far, and they were immense.

He took supper with us, and then father and Ben both went over to his future home with him, and introduced him to Aunt Peg and Plint. He was to work for father, and would be over in the "mornin'," he said.

"I wonder if he was a slave, Emily?" said Ben.

"I think so," said I. "We will question him to-morrow if we get a chance," and we did, for the day was stormy, and father did not go to the woods, but kept Matthias at work in the barn cleaning up, etc. About four o'clock his work was finished, and we invited him to come in and sit awhile.

"Now, Ben," I said, and we seated ourselves for a conference.

"Mr. Jones," said I, "you came from the South, did you?"

"'Pears like I did, Miss, an' it's a mighty cool country yere; I'm nigh froze in de winter, I is sartin."

"Were you a slave?"

"Yes'm," and the old man gave a long sigh.

"Would you mind telling us about it? Ben and I never saw a person before from the South."

"Never did? There's a heap on 'em, wud 'jes like ter see ye. Long time awaitin', but de promise ov de Massa mus' be true," and again a thoughtful look came over his dusky face. "I don't mind tellin' ye a little if I ken. I was a slave in Carlina, an' I had a good massa, Miss; a fus-rate man, but he done tuk sick an' died, an' then—wh-e-ew," and he gave a long, low whistle, "thar cum sich a time thar; de ole woman she done no nuthin' 'bout de biznis, an' de big son he sell all de niggers an' get all de money, an' dars whar my trubbel begin. De nex' massa had de debbil fur his father, sure; nothin' go rite; made me go an' marry, fus thing, an' to a gal I didn't like, nohow. Little niggers come along, an' I done bes' I cud by 'em, but what cud I do? Nothin' at all; an' fus thing I knew—he'd done gone an' sold ebery one ob dat family, and den he mus' hab me marry agin. Dis secon' marriage was better'n that; fur I did like de gal mighty well. 'Pears like we's gwine to take sum comfort, and when we'd had de meetins to our cabin, oh! how we did jes pray fur dat freedom we hear'm tell 'bout—pray mos' too loud, for dat old Mas'r Sumner tink we's alltogeder too happy, an' den, he up and sold dat pretty gal ob ourn, what was jes risin' uv her fourth year, Miss, an' as pretty as could be. Dis broke my wife's heart, an' den he sold one more to a trader; and not long fur de wife an' two last' chilun was gone. Den I jes swore rite up, Miss—rite into dat Masr's face an' eyes—'I'm neber gwine to hab no more chilun,' an' he says to me, 'Matt, you got to do jes as I say,' an' I swear agin, an' he cuss and swear, an' then, I got sich a floggin'—Miss, but I didn't keer, an' I would never done as dat man sed, an' I 'spected to die, but a New Orleans trader cum dat way, an' I was sold, and Mas'r Sumner said, de las' thing, 'You'll get killed now, Matt.' 'All right, Mas'r,' I sed, 'de Lord is a waitin' an' He's a good fren, too,' an' off I went. Dar we wur in a pen in New Orleans, waitin' fur we didn't know what, an' on come a fever an' dat trader know he's got to die. Den, to make peace wid de Lord at the las't jump he done giv us all freedom, an' money to git us into dat great city ov New York; an' mine lasted me clean up to Misse Hungerford's door (Aunt Phebe), an' las' night, when I see dat nice room over thar an' that good fire, oh! my," and the old man buried his face in his hands and wept like a child, then looking up, he said, "Ef I cud only ahad my chilun in thar; 'pears de Lord Himself might ahelped me a minnit sooner—but dey is gone, all done gone, an' 'taint no use."

"You may meet them again, Mr. Jones; I hope we shall know each other there in that better country, and if we do you'll surely know and find them."

"Oh! Miss, that's the bery thing, it takes a load right off yere, when I think about it," and he laid his hand on his heart, "but I'd better be shufflin' off home, an' I'll tell you a heap more sometime," and as he went through the yard, I heard him singing "dat New Je-ru-sa-lem," prolonging the last word, as if it was too musical to lose.

I told it all to Clara, and she said:

"Oh! Emily, is he not one of God's children, and is it not true that all have that within which points to better things? How could the soul of this poor negro stay within his body if it were not for this hope that covers his troubles, and, like a lantern-light, throws a gleam into the path which lies before? I hope he will live now in comfort and die in peace. He must have been sent to you. Next time let me listen to his story." And she did, for the next evening we walked together over to his home, and spent two hours pleasantly enough.

Clara could not rest until sure of just how he could get along there, and finally made an arrangement with Aunt Peg to give him his meals when he should be there. The voice of the old man—he looked more than sixty years, but said his age was fifty, I think he did not know—quivered with emotion, as he said:

"Thank yer, mam, thank yer kindly, I'll tote a load forty miles for ye any day, and I kin tote pretty 'harbaneous' loads too."

"Never mind that, Mr. Jones, I like to see you comfortable."

"Strange talk, mam," he said; "these yere ole ears been more used to, 'git up thar, yer lazy nigger, this yere cottin mus be got into de market.'"

He proved a valuable acquisition to my father, and before this month of February, whose beginning brought him to us, had passed, father said to mother:

"I hardly see how I could get on without Matthias. He is so trusty, and he is smart too. If the poor fellow had been given half a chance, he would have made a good business man, for he has good ideas as to bringing things around in season."

"Truth is stranger than fiction," said mother. "Two classes of society have been perfectly represented in those who have been brought to us during this last year."

"How strangely things work, and there seem to be ways under them all that will work out in spite of us," said father.

The Sabbath on which we had expected to go to hear the Reverend Hosea Ballou preach proved cold and rainy, and a month would elapse ere he came again. We were impatient waiters, but the time came at last, on the Sabbath after the arrival of Matthias, and he was to come over and attend to the early milking, while Hal and Mr. Benton would have supper ready for us on our return.

That day was to me like a never-to-be-forgotten sunrise. Although gleams of light had before this crossed my vision, never had so radiant a morning of perception opened the door of my soul. New yet old, unknown yet longed for, those words fell like golden sun-rays into the room of my understanding; they bathed me with light, and baptized me with tenderness, while I stood at the fount of living inspiration. That grand old man, then about seventy-two years of age, talked to the assembled congregation from this text: "For we know that if our earthly house of this tabernacle were dissolved, we have a building of God; an house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens" (Second Corinthians, fifth chapter and first verse). It was all as natural as a part of himself could be, and he was a power. Pure and dispassionate, the plea he made rested on the ground of revealed truth. He told us of what the history of the past furnished, and carried us clear on into the life beyond. "The letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life; as in Adam all die, so in Christ shall all be made alive."

It seemed to me then, and still seems, that he spoke with a power that was divine. The tide of earnest thought and feeling that carried him with his subject out on the depth, carried also his hearers, and we were shown the way to the port of eternal life. Oh, how he strengthened me! His touching invocation reached, as it seemed, the very doors of heaven and swung them wide open, and when the people joined in singing the good old hymn, written by Sebastian Streeter, whose first verse runs as follows:

I cried almost aloud for great joy. My father and mother were moved, and when they saw my tears united their own. To our great surprise, after the service we learned that the professor was the guest of our cousin, Belinda Sprag, and at her house after dinner I had an opportunity to say to him:

"Mr. Ballou, call me your child, for you have to-day baptized me. I am a Universalist, I know, for I love your doctrine."

"Bless you, my daughter," was his reply. "God finds His own through time. May your young heart be made strong, and your life blossom with roses that have no thorns."

That was great honor to me; the touch of that hand on my head; those words addressed to me. We all went home, having had a feast of good things, and our blessed Clara, who had been the means of leading us to the light, sat all the way as in a dream, only saying:

"I have long known it was true."

Ben added his testimony to the rest.

"When I die," said he, "I want that man to preach my funeral sermon, if he will, and if he can't, I don't want any at all."

Dear boy, he had a loving heart; he was born later than either Hal or me, and had an earlier spiritual development. Is it not always so?

I could not enjoy my new thoughts in silence as Clara did, and gave vent to my theme in the strongest terms. Hal did not ridicule me at all: he was too sensible for this, but he smiled at my strong expressions, and said:

"You will preach yourself if you keep on, and I believe you would make converts. Your eyes are as large again as they were this morning."

"Then it must improve my looks, Hal," I said. "If so, I am glad, for in that respect I have always stood in the background. My brother is an artist, and must, of course, have the handsome face."

He laughed again, and added:

"He will never be ashamed of his sister, I think, and never say 'Emily did it,' even if she turns preacher."

Mr. Benton enquired—with his eyes—the meaning of those words.

I answered:

"Oh! Hal was forever shouting that in my earlier years at my many mistakes, until I almost hated the sound of my own name, for I was always doing the very things I tried not to, and I fear I have not finished all yet. And I thought, for a little, of the wrong light in which Mr. Benton held my strange talk with him.

I was each day more troubled regarding this, and especially so, since I had no one to talk with about it. Clara I must not tell, and I had resolved for her sake to be misunderstood indefinitely, for if I had failed in one point, I had gained in another. The burden was lifted from her, and she had told me the cloud was broken and she felt better, and added the strange words, "It may yet come near me; it seems as if a fringe of the cloud must yet touch me: but I am relieved for the present."

I feared to worry my mother, who, during all these days, was very busy and full of care. Aunt Hildy would hardly understand me, and as I was waiting for something to move as it were, to make room for me to step, I must still wait, and thought what a pity it was I had not waited in the beginning, and then when I did move make all things plain. But then it lay before me, around and within me, this strange compound of good thought and impulsive will, and I must reach and fall until, ah! I could not tell when I should graduate in this school.

I had now power to restrain myself in many ways, and that had been given in the days before described, when I passed from girlhood to womanhood, but to sit satisfied and wait, I could not yet do. It seemed as if the wings of my thought must grow, and wanted to help me fly, and I was like a bird longing to get into the freedom that waited, and like the bird too, did not realize that my attempts would be in vain, and I could never get out of the cage until a hand opened its door. Therefore, full often I battled unwisely, but I certainly came to know those times, and never made a mistake that I did not realize just a moment too late. How foolish it was!

I prayed for strength, and after the baptism of Mr. Ballou's preaching, I thought, "This will help to make me stronger; now I shall make fewer mistakes."

This was a comfort and a light before me, but my heart sank a little, thinking I might have penance to do for those already committed,—coming events cast their shadows before.

So full of this thought my heart grew, that I asked Aunt Hildy one day if she ever felt trouble before it came, and if that feeling had ever helped her to avoid any part of what was to come.

"Well," said she,—she was coring and paring apples for pies,—taking up the towel and wiping one apple three or four times over in an absent way, "Well, Emily, I've had a host of troubles in my day. They began early, perhaps they'll end late, but there is one thing, the things we expect are agoin' to kill us, most allus turn out like the shadder of a gate post. You know the shadder sometimes will be clean across the road, but when you find the post itself 'taint more'n five feet high. Then again the things we don't expect 'll come some morning like a great harricane, and kill the marigolds of the heart in just a minit."

I was sorry for her sake I had asked the question, for I knew there was something she thought of that pained her dear old heart, and I kissed her wrinkled cheek and said:

"I hope you will always be with us, and trouble have no part in the matter."

"There, there, child, don't talk so; never mind kissin' my old face neither, I've allus said it only made it worse to think of it, and I've shut up my heart tight and done the best I could as it comes along. When I get in that new body I shall have over there," and her tearful eyes were looking upward then, "perhaps I can hope to have some love that'll touch that empty spot."

I turned to my work and left Aunt Hildy with the shadows of the past clinging about her, her feelings being too sacred for the gaze even of a friend. Every heart knoweth its bitterness, I thought, and secretly wondered if every heart had to bleed a little here, holding some sorrow close to itself. If so, our duty in life would ever be a struggle, whereas it seemed to me the world was so beautiful, and if every life could reflect this beauty, all would be easy, and the pleasure of well-doing be always at hand.

Aunt Peg said 'twas easy enough to preach, but hard work to practise. I began to realize it a little, and the teacher who gave me the most practical illustrations was myself.

I wrote a long letter to Louis, telling him of our going to hear Mr. Ballou preach, and of Matthias' coming among us, and I felt like making him my confessor, and wanted to tell him all about the frantic endeavor I had made for Clara's sake; but my letter was long enough when I felt this impulse, and I thought I could talk it all over with him when he came, and concluded to wait. And here is another lesson, for me to stop and reflect on. As time proved, that impulse was right, and I should have followed its guidance, while the sober second thought which I obeyed and of which I felt proud, led me to just the opposite of what I ought to have done. How was I to find myself out? If I yielded to impulse I was so often wrong, and in that instance I should certainly have been impulsive. Again comes in the text, "the ways of life are past comprehending."

Mr. Benton improved every opportunity to talk with me, and while I did not like the man at first, I became gradually interested in what he said; and when, in confidence, he informed me that Hal was in love with Mary Snow, I had a secret joy at receiving his confidence. He was eighteen years older than myself, and after my mind was settled regarding the wrong estimate in which I had held him, I treated his opinions with more deference than over before, and came to regard him as a good friend to us all.

I intimated to Clara one day that he was a much better man than I had thought, and she gave me no reply, but looked on me with a light of wonder in her eyes.

"He does not trouble you now, Clara, does he?"

"Not as before, Emily."

"Well, does he at all?"

"I cannot say I feel quite at ease, Emily dear," she replied.

And I said: "It is your beautifully sensitive nature, darling; you cannot recover the balance once lost, and the tender nerves that have been shaken are like strings that after a touch continue to vibrate."

"Perhaps so, Emily, but I shall be so glad when the day comes when no mask of smiles can cover the workings of the heart, so glad; when we can really know each other."

"Those are Louis' sentiments."

"Oh yes, my dear boy! he has a heart that beats as mine, Emily, and after many days it shall come to pass that the desires of his heart shall be gratified."

Something in her tone and manner made me feel strangely; a chill crept over me, and for a second I felt numb.

It passed away, however, and through the gate of duty I found work, and left these thoughts.

When March came to us, father insisted that mother should go to Aunt Phebe's, if we could get along without her—she had a little hacking cough every spring, and he knew she needed the change. It was decided that she should go and stay a month, if she could keep away from home so long. Aunt Hildy said: "Why, Mis' Minot, go right along. Don't you take one stitch of work with you neither. Go, and let your lungs get full of different air, and see what that'll do for you. Take along some everlasting flowers I've got, and make a tea and drink it while you're there, and let the tea and the air do their work together."

So, although it was a trial to mother to leave home, she went, and we were to be alone. There were a good many of us, but it seemed to me, the first week, that her place would not be filled by twenty others, and while I enjoyed the thought of her being free from care, I walked out in the cold March wind alone every night after supper, and let the tears fall. If I had been indoors Clara would surely have found me. It was on one of these walks that Mr. Benton overtook me, and passed his arm within mine, saying:

"What does this mean, Emily," he dropped "Miss Minot" soon after the first talk, "this is the fifth time I have seen you go out at this hour alone; what is the matter? Are you in trouble?"

"And if I am," I said, "what have you to do with it?" at the same time trying to release his arm from mine.

"I have the right of a dear friend, I hope," he said, and the tears that would keep falling forced a confession from me and provoked his laughter, which grated on my ears at first, but he begged pardon for its seeming rudeness, and said he was thinking only of my going over the hills to cry, when I could have a whole house to fill with tears.

We walked farther than I intended, and Matthias passed us on his way over to his "ground room."

I said, "Good evening, Mr. Jones," and he saluted me with uncovered head, saying:

"De Lord keep you, miss, till mornin'."

Realizing how far we had walked, I turned hack so suddenly that Mr. Benton came near being pushed into the stone wall on the old road corners. On our return he spoke of Matthias.

"I don't like that fellow anyway, Emily."

"Don't like him! why not, pray?"

He gave a sort of derisive ejaculation, and added:

"You are a little simpleton, Emily, so good and true, you take all for gold."

"Well," I replied, "Matthias is good, I know; but why do you dislike him?"

"Oh! he belongs to a miserable, low-lived, thievish race, and he knows enough to be a dangerous fellow to have round. If I were you I'd not encourage his hanging round; he'll do something to pay you for your kindness yet."