The pictures Louis painted were not on canvas, but living, breathing entities, and my heart rejoiced as the years rolled over us that the brush he wielded with such consummate skill was touched also by my hand; that it had been able to verify Clara's "Emily will do it," and that now in the days that came I heard her say "Louis and Emily are doing great good." I think nothing is really pleasure as compared with the blessedness of benefitting others.

My experience in my earliest years had taught me to believe gold could buy all we desired, but after Clara came to us and one by one the burden of daily planning to do much with very little fell out of our lives, and the feeling came to us that we had before us a wider path, with more privileges than we had ever before known, I found the truth under it all, that the want of a dollar is not the greatest one in life, neither the work and struggle "to make both ends meet," as we said, the hardest to enforce.

It was good to know my parents were now free from petty anxieties, that no unsettled bills hung over my father's head like threatening clouds, and that my mother could, if she would, take more time; to herself. Indeed she was forced to be less busy with hard work, for Aunt Hildy worked with power and reigned supreme here, and I helped her in every way. It was the help that came in these ways, I firmly believed, that saved mother's life and kept her with us. This was a great comfort, but none of us could say our desires ended here.

No, as soon as the vexed question of how to live had settled itself, then within our minds rose the great need of enlarged understanding. Millions of dollars could not have rendered me happy when my mind was clouded, and now it seemed to me, while strength lasted, no work, however hard it might be, could deprive me of the happiness and love that filled my heart. I loved to read and think, and I loved to work also.

Sometimes when my hands were filled with work and I could not stop to write, beautiful couplets would come to me, and after a time stanzas which I thought enough of to copy. In this way I "wrote myself down," as Louis termed it, and occasionally he handed me a paper with my verses printed, saying always:

"Another piece of my Emily."

May, 1853, brought Southern Mary and her husband to us. We met them with our own carriage, and within her arms there nestled a dainty parcel called "our baby," of whose coming we had not been apprised. What a beautiful picture she was, this little lady, nine months old, the perfect image of her mother, with little flaxen rings that covered her head like a crown. I heeded not the introduction to her father, but, reaching my hands to her, said:

"Let me have her, Mary, let me take her. I cannot wait a minute."

Louis gently reminded me that Mr. Waterman was speaking to me, and I apologized hastily, as I gathered the blossom to my heart, where she sat just as quiet as a kitten all the way home. Clara was delighted with the "little bud," as she called her.

"Tell me her name," I said.

"Oh! guess it," said Mary.

"Your own?"

"No, no, you can never guess, for we called her Althea, after kind Mrs. Goodwin, who nursed me so tenderly, and Emily, for another lady we know"—and she looked at me with her bright eyes, while an arch smile played over her face. I only kissed the face of the beautiful child, and Louis said:

"My Emily's name is fit for the daughter of a king. God bless the little namesake," and Althea Emily gave utterance to a protracted "goo," which meant, of course, yes.

You should have heard her talk, though, when Matthias came over to see "Miss Molly."

"Come shufflin' over to see you," he said, "an' O my! but aint she jest as pooty. O"—and at this moment she realized his presence, both her little hands were stretched forth in welcome, and "ah goo! ah goo!" came a hundred times from her sweet mouth as she tried to spring out of her mother's lap.

"Take her, Matthias," I said.

"Wall, wall, she 'pears as ef she know me, Miss Emily—reckon she's got a mammy down thar."

"She has, indeed," said Mary, "and I know she will miss Mammy Lucy. She was my nurse, and she cried bitterly when we left, but I do not need her, Allie is just nothing to care for, and I like to be with her myself, for I am her mother, you know," she added proudly.

"I mus' know that ole Mammy Lucy, doesn't I, Miss Molly?"

"Certainly you do, Matthias, and she has sent a bandanna turban for your wife, and a pair of knitted gloves for you. She told me to say she didn't forget you, and was mighty glad for your freedom. Father long since gave her her's and she has quite a sum of money of her own."

All this time white baby fingers were pawing Matthias' face, as if in pity, and losing their little tips among his woolly hair.

When he rose to leave she cried bitterly, and turning back he said:

"Kin I tote her over to see Peg to-morrer?"

"Oh! yes," said Mary "give her my love and tell her I am coming over."

"Look out for breakers," said Aunt Hildy, when she saw the child, "this house'll be a bedlam now, but then we were all as leetle as that once, I spos'e," and her duty evidently spoke at that moment, saying, "You must bear with it." But she was not troubled.

Allie never troubled us, she was as sweet and sunny as a May morning all through, and even went to meeting and behaved herself admirably. She never said a word till the service ended, when she uttered one single "goo" as if well pleased. Aunt Hildy said at the supper-table she didn't believe any such thing ever happened before in the annals of our country's history,

"She's the best baby I ever see. Wish she'd walk afore you leave."

"She has never deigned to creep," said Mary; "the first time I tried to have her, she looked at me and then at her dress as if to say, "That isn't nice," and could not be coaxed to crawl. She hitches along instead, and even that is objectionable. I imagine some nice morning she will get right up and walk." At that moment Allie threw back her head of dainty yellow rings, and laughed heartily, as if she knew what we said.

Mrs. Goodwin claimed the trio for one-half of the six weeks allotted to their stay, and she said afterward:

"They were three beautiful weeks with three beautiful folks."

Louis at this time was working hard with the brush of his active goodness, and had before him much canvas to work upon. The days were placing it in his view, and we both dreamed at night of the work which had come and was coming.

It was a sunny day in June when he said: "Will my Emily go with me to-day? The colors are waiting on the pallet of the brain, and our hands must use them to-day."

"Your Emily is ready," I replied, "and Gipsy (our horse) will take us, I guess."

We went first to Jane North's, and Louis said to her;

"Jane, are you ready now to help us as you have promised?"

"Yes, sir," she replied; "I am."

"Will you take two boys to care for; one eleven years of age, and the other twelve?"

"I'll do just what you say, or try to, and if my patience gives out I can tell you, I 'spose, but I'm bound to do my duty, for I scolded and fretted and tended to other folk's business fifteen years jist because my own plans was upset, and I couldn't bear to see anybody happy. Well, 'twas the power of sin that did it, and if some of the old Apostles fell short I can't think I'm alone, though that don't make it any better for me. When are they coming?"

"To-night, I think. Give them a good room and good food, and I will remunerate you as far as money goes. I would like you to take them; you are so neat and thrifty, and will treat them well. When they get settled we will see just what to do for them," said Louis, and we drove on to the village. Our next stopping-place was found in the narrowest street there, and where a few small and inconvenient dwellings had been erected by the mill owners for such of their help as could afford to pay only for these miserable homes. They looked as if they had fallen together there by mistake. And the plot of ground which held the six houses seemed to me to be only a good-sized house lot. We stopped at the third one and were admitted by a careworn woman, who looked about fifty years of age. She greeted us gladly, though when Louis introduced me, I knew she felt the meager surroundings and wished he had been alone, for her face flushed and her manner was nervous. I spoke kindly and took the chair she proffered, being very careful not to appear to notice the scantily furnished room.

"Well," said Louis, "Mrs. Moore, are you ready to let your boy go with me?"

"Oh, sir," she said, "only too willing; but I have been afraid you would not come. It seemed so strange that you should make us such an offer—so strange that you can afford to do it, and be willing, too, for experience has taught us to expect nothing, especially from those who have money. But Willie's clothes, sir, are sadly worn. I have patched them beyond holding together, almost; but I could get no new ones."

"Never mind that," said Louis. "We will go to the mill for him and his little friend, too, if he can go."

"Oh! yes, sir; he can, and I am so glad, for the father is a miserably discouraged man. He drinks to drown trouble, and it seems to me he will drown them all after a little. A pleasant man, too. His wife says poor health first caused him to use liquor."

We then called on the woman in question and obtained her tearful consent, for while the promise of a home for her boy was a bright gleam, she said:

"He is the oldest. Oh! I shall miss him when we are sick."

"He shall come to you any time," said Louis, "and you shall visit him."

And in a few moments we were at the mill. Entering the office, Louis was cordially greeted by one of the three gentlemen who had called on us. He evidently anticipated his errand, for he said:

"So, you are come for Willie Moore and Burton Brown?"

"Yes, sir," Louis replied. "Can I go to the room for them?"

"As you please, Mr. Desmonde, I can call them down. Their room is not a very desirable place for a lady to visit."

Louis looked at him as if to remind him of something, while I said:

"My place is beside my husband."

"Yes," added Louis, "we work together. Come, Emily," and he led the way to the fourth floor, where, under the flat roof in a long, low room, were the little wool pickers. I thought at first I could not breathe, the air was so close and sickening. And here were twenty boys, not one of them more than twelve or thirteen years old, working through long hours. The heat was stifling, and the fuzz from the wool made it worse. They wore no stockings or shoes, nothing but a shirt and overalls, and these were drenched as with rain.

As we entered Louis whispered, "See the pictures," and it was a bright, glad light that came suddenly into all their eyes at sight of their friend. He spoke to them all, introducing me as we passed through the long line that lay between the two rows of boys. When we came to Willie and Burton, Louis whispered to them:

"Get ready to go with me."

They went into the adjoining hall to put on the garments which they wore to and from the mill, and in less time than it takes me to write it, they stood ready for a start. As we passed again between the lines of boys Louis dropped into every palm a silver piece, saying, as he did so:

"Hold on, boys, work with good courage, and we will see you all in a different place one of these days."

"Thank you, sir;" and "yes, sir, we will," fell upon our ears as we passed out. Our two little protegÉs ran out in advance. And as I looked back a moment, standing on the threshold of the large door, I said:

"It is a beautiful picture, Louis. You are a master artist."

After again stopping in the office for a few words of conversation with Mr. Damon, Louis was ready, the boys clambered into our carriage, and we were on our way to their homes, first stopping to purchase for each of them a suit of clothes, a large straw hat, and a black cap. The boys said nothing, but looked a world of wondering thanks.

Louis made an arrangement for the boys to live with Jane, and to go to our town school when it began in the fall.

"This summer," he said to their mothers, "they need all the out-door air and free life they can have to help their pale cheeks grow rosy, and to give to their weak muscles a little of the strength they require. I desire no papers to pass between us, for I am not taking your children from you, only helping you to give them the rest and change they need to save their lives. They are the weakest boys in the mill and this is why I chose them first. Every Saturday they shall come home to you, and stay over the Sabbath if you desire, and they shall also bring to you as much as they could earn in the mill. Will this be satisfactory?"

Both these mothers bowed their heads in silent appreciation of the real service he was rendering, and I knew his labor was not lost. I felt like adding my tribute to his, and said:

"Your boys will be well cared for, and you shall come often to see us. We expect you to enjoy a little with them."

"Oh! mother, will you come over and bring the children?" said Willie.

"And you, too, mother," echoed Burton.

Weary Mrs. Moore said:

"I would like to breathe again in the woods and on the mountains, but I have five little ones left here to care for;" and Mrs. Brown added:

"I could only come on Saturday, and the mill lets out an hour earlier, and your father needs me on that day more than any other."

Her sad face and tearful eyes told my woman's heart that this was the day he was tempted more than all others, and I afterward gathered as much from Burton.

"Well, we must turn toward home," said Louis, and the boys kissed their mothers and their little brothers and sisters, and said "good-bye," and each with his bundles turned to the carriage. Louis untied Gipsy, and I said to the mothers:

"Were they ever away over night?"

"No, never," said both at once.

"I will arrange for them. You shall hear to-morrow how the first night passes with them."

"I was just thinking of that," said Mrs. Brown; "God bless you for your thoughtfulness," and getting into the carriage, we all waved our good-byes, and turned toward home. We told Jane all we could to interest her, and particularly asked her to make everything pleasant for them, that they should not be homesick. Louis went to their room with them, and when we left them at Jones' gate, Willie Moore shouted after us:

"It's just heaven here, ain't it?"

He was an uncommonly bright little boy, and yet had no education whatever beyond spelling words of three letters. He was twelve years of age, and for three years he had worked in the mill. Clara and all at home were delighted with our work, and Aunt Hildy said:

"Ef Jane North does well by them boys, she oughter have a pension from the Gov'ment, and sence I know that'll never give her a cent, I'll do it myself. I've got an idee in my head."

Then Southern Mary and her husband laughed, not in derision, for they admired Aunt Hildy, and Mr. Waterman said:

"If men had your backbone, Mrs. Patten, there would be a different state of things altogether."

"My husband is almost an Abolitionist," said Mary. "Some of our people dislike him greatly; but my father is a good man and he does not illtreat one of his people. He is one of the exceptional cases. But the system is, I know, accursed by God. I believe it to be a huge scale that fell from the serpent's back in the Garden, and I feel the day will dawn when the accursed presence of slavery will be no longer known."

"Good!" said Aunt Hildy, "and there's more kinds than one. Them little children is slaves—or was."

"When you get ready to make out your pension papers, Mrs. Patten," said Mary, "let me help jest a little; I would like to lay a corner-stone somewhere in this village for some one's benefit. You know this is the site of a drama in my life; I pray never to enact its like again."

"I'll give you a chance," said Aunt Hildy.

Louis went over to Jane's in the morning, and the boys returned with him to tell us what a good supper and breakfast they had had.

"And such a nice bed," added Burton. "When we looked out of the window this morning I wished mother could come."

"Poor little soul!" I said, "your mother shall come. We will move every obstacle from her path."

"If father could find work here it would be nice," and a little while after, he said in a low tone:

"There ain't any rum shops here, is there?"

He was a tender plant, touchingly sensitive, and when I told him we were to send word to his mother that he liked his home, his joy was a pleasure to witness.

"Miss North says we may have some flowers, and we'd better go back, Willie, and see about getting the spot ready—she had her seed box out last night, but I guess she'll give us plants too, to put in the ground."

He was very thoughtful, and would not stay too long for anything, he said. Aunt Hildy looked after them, and sighed with the thoughts that rose within, but said no word.

The three weeks of Mr. and Mrs. Waterman's stay were at an end.

"On the morrow," said Mary, "we go to Aunty Goodwin's. I want to go, and dread to leave. But is that Matthias coming over the hill? It is, and I have something to tell him. I have meant to do it before, but there was really no opportunity. Come out with me, and let's sit down under the elm tree while I tell him. Come, Allie," and she lifted the blue-eyed baby tenderly. Oh, how sweet she was! and I wondered how we could bear to lose her. She crowed with delight at Matthias' approach, and at Mary's suggestion he took a seat beside us.

"I have something to tell you now; open wide your ears, Uncle Peter."

"What's dat you say, Miss Molly; got some news from home?"

"Yes, I have news for you from your own."

"Oh, Miss Molly, don't for de Lord's sake wait a minit!"

"Your wife, whom Mr. Sumner so cruelly sold for you, is very happy now, for she is free, Matthias."

"Done gone to hevin, does you mean? Tell it all," said the old man, who trembled visibly.

"She did not live two months, but she was in good hands. I accidentally met her mistress, who told me about her. She said she had kept her in the house to wait on her, for she liked her very much. But she seemed sad, and grew tired, and one morning she did not appear, and they found her in her little room, next that of Mrs. Sanders, quite dead and looking peaceful and happy. Her mistress felt badly, for she meant to do well by her. They thought some heart trouble caused her death."

"Oh, my! oh, my! dat heart ob hern was done broke when dat man sold our little gal. Oh, I knowed it ud neber heal up agin! but tank de Lord she's free up dar. Oh, Miss Emily! can't no murderers go in troo de gate? Dat Mas'r Sumner can't neber get dar any more, Miss Molly?"

"Yes, Matthias. Dry your tears, for I've something good to tell. Your oldest boy, John, has a good master, and is buying his freedom. They help him along. He drives a team, and is a splendid fellow. He will be free soon, and will come to see you, perhaps to live with you. This is all I know, but isn't it a great deal?"

Matthias stood on his feet, his eyes dilating as they turned full on Mary, his hands clenched, his form raised as erect as it was possible for him, and his breast heaving with great emotion, as from his lips came slowly these words:

"Do you mean it, Miss Molly? Is you foolin, or is you in dead earnest for sartin?"

"It is truth, every word I say."

"Oh, oh, oh!" and he sank on the seat beside us, covering his face with both hands, while tears fell at his feet, and as they touched the grass they shone in the sun like large round drops of dew. I thought they were as white and pure as though his skin was fair. And he wept not alone, for we wept with him.

Allie reached to bury her fingers in his mass of woolly, curling hair, and as he felt their tender tips, he raised his head and put out his hands to her, saying:

"Come, picaninny, come and help me be glad. Oh, Canaan, bright Canaan! Oh, de Lord has hearn my prayer an' what kin I say, what kin I do, an' how kin I wait fur to see dat chile? He's jes like his mother, pooty, I know. Oh, picaninny, holler louder! le's tell it to the people that my John is a comin' fur to see me, dat he haint got no use fur a mas'r any more," and up and down he walked before us, while Allie made demonstrations of joy.

It was a strange picture. "Oh, Canaan!" still he sang, and "De New Jerusalem," until I really feared his joy would overcome him, and was glad to see Louis coming toward us. He took a seat beside me, and I was about to tell him the wonderful news, when Matthias, who noticed him, handed Allie to her mother, and falling on his knees before Louis, cried aloud:

"Oh, Mas'r Louis, help me, for de good Lord's sake! will you help me, Mas'r Louis?"

"Oh, yes, my dear fellow!" and he laid his hand on him tenderly; "tell me just what you want me to do."

"Oh, my boy! Miss Molly tells me my own boy John have got his freedom mos out, an' he's comin' to find me. I can't wait, Mas'r Louis; 'pears like a day'll be a year. I mout die, he mout die too. I'll sen' him my buryin' money, an' ef tant enough, can't you sen' a little more? an' I'll work it out, I will, sure, an' no mistake; fur de sake of the right, Mas'r Louis, an' for to make my ole heart glad. Will you do it?"

"I certainly will, Matthias; but you are excited now."

"Bless ye. May de heavins open fur to swallow me in ef I don't clar up ebery cent you pays fur me. But you can't tell. Oh, ye don't know!" and again he walked, clapped his hands, and sang, "Oh, Canaan, bright Canaan!" till, pausing suddenly, he said, "Guess I better shuffle ober to tell Peg—'pears like I'm done gone clar out whar I can't know nothin';" and with "good arternoon" he left us, swinging his hat in his hand, and singing still "Oh, Canaan!" as he traveled over the hill toward home.

We were all glad for Matthias, and Clara said:

"Let us rejoice with them that rejoice; and Louis, my dear boy, write at once to the gentleman who owns John, and pay him whatever he says is due. We can do it, and we should, for the poor, tired heart of his father cannot afford to wait when a promise lies so near. Let us help him to lay hold upon it."

"Amen," said Aunt Hildy. "I'll help ten dollars' worth; taint much."

"But you shall keep it for John," said Clara; "he will need something after he gets here."

The next morning Matthias came to deliver his bank-book to Louis, saying:

"Get the buryin' money; get it and send it fur me, please."

Louis told him to keep his bank-book.

"You shall see your boy as soon as money can get him here."

"Oh, Mas'r Louis!" and he grasped both his hands; "de Lord help this ole nigger to pay you. I's willin' to work dese fingers clean to de bone."

Our two boys got on bravely. The first Saturday night we sent them home with loaded baskets, and each with a pail of new milk, which we knew would be a treat to the children, and in their little purses the amount promised by Louis. Matthias took them to their homes, and Louis went for them on Monday morning, and when he returned he said:

"The pictures are growing, Emily. Bright eyes and rosy cheeks will come soon."

Mr. and Mrs. Waterman were leaving us. We were kissing "our baby" good-bye. How we disliked to say the word! And when looking back at Matthias after we started, she cried, "Mah, mah!" I laughed and cried together. Louis and I parted with them reluctantly at the depot, and our last words were:

"Send John right along."

"We will," they answered, as the train rode away and baby Allie pressed her shining face against the window. It was only two weeks and two days from that day that Louis, Clara and I (she said after our marriage "Call me Clara, for we are sisters—never say 'mother Desmonde;' to say mother when you have such a blessed one of your own is robbery to her") drove to the depot to meet John. Matthias said to us,

"You go fur him, ef you please, fur I can never meet him in de crowd; I want to wait by de road an' see him cum along. Mighty feared I'll make a noony o' myself."

The train stopped, and Louis left us in the carriage and went to find him. My heart jumped as I thought he might not be there, but ere I had time to say it to Clara, he came in sight, walking proudly erect by the side of Louis, as handsome a colored man as could be seen. He was quite light, tall as Louis, and well proportioned, his mouth pleasantly shaped and not large, his nose suited to a Greek rather than to a negro, and over his forehead, which was broad and full, black hair fell in tight-curling rings,—resembling Matthias in nothing save perhaps his eyes. It did not seem possible this could be a man coming from the power of a master—how I dislike that term, a slave—this noble looking fellow; I shuddered involuntarily, and grasped his hand in welcome with a fervent "God bless you, John; I welcome you heartily." Clara stretched forth her little hand also, saying:

"John, you can never know how glad we are." He stood with his hat raised, and his large beautiful eyes turned toward us filled with feeling as he answered:

"Ladies, you can never realize the debt I have to pay you. It seems a dream that I am here, a free man with an old father waiting to see his son; oh, sir," and he turned to Louis, "my heart is full!"

"We do not doubt it, dear fellow, but get into the carriage and let Gipsy take us to the hills. She knows your father waits. Now go, Gipsy," and the willing creature seemed inspired, going at a quick pace as if she understood her mission.

I saw Matthias sitting on a log a little this side of our home, shading his eyes with his hand, and when John spied him, he laid his hand on his heart and said:

"Please let me get out and walk; excuse me, sir, but I cannot sit here."

We respected his feelings and held Gipsy back, that he might with his long strides reach his father before us, which he did. When Matthias saw him walking toward him, he rose to his feet and the two men approached each other with uncovered heads. At last, when about ten feet apart, Matthias stopped and cried:

"John, oh, John!"

"Father, father, I am here," and with one bound he reached him, threw his arms about him, while Matthias' head fell on his shoulder; and here, as we reached them, they stood speechless with the great joy that had come to them. Two souls delivered from bondage—two white souls bathed in pure sunlight of my native skies. I can never forget this scene. We spoke no word to them, but as we passed them John spoke, saying:

"Sir, will you take my father's arm? He feels weak and I am not strong." I took the reins and Louis, springing to the ground, stepped between, and each taking his arm they walked together up to the door of our home where Aunt Hildy, mother, father, Ben, Hal and Mary, Mrs. Davis, Jane North and Aunt Peg, waited to receive them. When Matthias saw Peg he said:

"Come, Peg, come and kiss him; this is my John sure enuf." Supper waited and the table was spread for all. Mr. Davis gave thanks and spoke feelingly of the one among us who had been delivered from the yoke of bondage, saying:

"May we be able to prove ourselves worthy of his great love, and confidence, and be forever mindful of all those both in the North and South who wait, as he has waited, for deliverance." Matthias grew calm, and when they left us to walk home, Louis and I went with them. On the road over John said to Louis:

"Sir, I am greatly indebted to you, and I am anxious to go to work at once and pay my debt."

"You owe me nothing," said Louis; "I have no claim upon your money or time; I will help you in every way possible, and my reward will be found in the great joy and comfort you will bring to your father in his old age."

"This is too much," said John.

"Not enough," said Louis, and at Aunt Peg's vine-covered lattice 'neath which he stood, we said good-night and turned toward home, while in our hearts lay mirrored, another fadeless picture.