THE slaves on Mr. Turner's plantation had no SABBATH. To be sure, they were not driven to the field on Sunday, because it was considered an economic provision to let man and beast rest one day out of the seven. But they had no church to attend, and never had any meetings among themselves. Indeed there were no pious ones among them. The men took the day for sport; the women washed and ironed, sewed and cooked, and did various necessary chores for themselves and children, for which they were allowed no other opportunity; and spent the rest of the day in rude singing, dancing, and boisterous merriment.

Tidy could not live as the rest did. She could not forget the instructions and habits of the past. She preferred to sit up later on Saturday evening to do the work which others did on Sunday, and when that day came, she never entered into their coarse gayety and mirth. She had no heart for it, and did not care though she was reviled and scoffed at for her particular, pious ways.

One Sunday afternoon, weary with the noise and rioting at the quarters, homesick and sad, she wandered away from her hovel, and strolling down the path which led to the cotton-field, she kept on through bush and brake and wood until she reached the bank of the river. Here, where the great Mississippi, the Father of Waters, seemed to have broken his way through tangled and interminable forests, she stood and looked out upon the broad stream. It lay like a vast mirror reflecting the sunlight, its surface only now and then disturbed by a passing boat or prowling king-fisher. Up and down the bank, with folded arms and pensive countenance, the toil-worn, weary girl walked, her soul in unison with the solitude and silence of the place. Recollections of the past, which continually haunted her, but which she had of late striven with all her might to banish from her mind, now rushed like a mighty tide over her. She could not help thinking of the pleasant Sabbath days in old Virginia, when she and Mammy Grace were always permitted to go to church; and of those sunset hours, when, seated in the door of the neat cabin, she had joined with the old nurse and Uncle Simon in singing those beautiful hymns they loved so well. How long it was since she had tried to sing one! Before she was aware, she was humming, in a low voice, the once familiar words:—

Then, suddenly jumping over all the intervening verses, as if she, a poor shipwrecked soul, were springing to the cable suddenly thrown out before her, she burst out in a loud strain,—

With what unction Uncle Simon used to pour forth that verse. It was to him the grand cure-all, the panacea for every heart-trouble; and over and over again he would sing it, always winding up in his own peculiar fashion with a quick, jerked-out "Hallelujah! Amen."

His image rose vividly before Tidy at that moment, and, as the tears began to roll down her cheeks, she clasped her hands over her face, and cried, "Oh, I has forgot that. I has forgot to pray." Then, falling on her knees, she poured forth such an earnest prayer as had never before, perhaps, been heard in that vast solitude. Her heart was relieved by this outpouring of her griefs to God, and she wondered that she had allowed herself, notwithstanding her sufferings and discouragements, to neglect such a privilege. It is so sometimes; grief is so overwhelming that it seems to shut us away from God; but we can never find comfort or relief until we have pierced through the clouds, and got near to his loving ear and heart again. Tidy found this true. "And now," she said to herself, "I WILL keep on praying until he hears me, and comes to help me,—I am determined I will."

But perhaps, thought she, I haven't prayed the right prayer; perhaps there's something about me that's wrong; and she cried with a loud voice, that was echoed back again from those forest depths, "O Lord, tell me just how to pray, that I mayn't make no mistake."

No sooner had she uttered this petition than she thought she heard a voice, and these were its words: "Say, 'O Lord, pluck me out of the fiery brands, and take my feet out of the miry pit, and make me stand on the everlasting rock; and, O Lord, save my soul.'" Tidy had heard a great many of her people tell about dreams and visions and voices, but she had never before had any such experiences. But this came to her with a reality she could not doubt or resist. It seemed like a voice from heaven, and she remarked that great stress was laid upon the last words, "O Lord, SAVE MY SOUL." Hitherto she had only sought temporal deliverance. She had never been fully awakened to her condition as a sinner, and had, therefore, never asked for the salvation of her soul. Now it was strongly impressed upon her mind that there was something more to be delivered from than the horrors of the cotton-field. She was a sinner, was not in favor with God, and if she should die in her present condition, she would go down to those everlasting burnings which she had always feared. All this was conveyed to her mind by a sudden impression, in much shorter time than I can relate it; and at once she accepted it, and earnestly resolved that she would offer that twofold prayer every day and hour, till the Lord should be pleased to come for her help.

Perhaps some of my readers would like to ask if I believe she really heard a voice. No, I do not. I think it was the Holy Spirit of God that brought to her mind some of the Scripture expressions she had formerly heard, and applied them to her heart with power. This is the peculiar work of the Holy Spirit. When Christ was bidding farewell to his disciples, he told them he should send the Comforter, which is the Holy Ghost, who should teach them all things, and BRING ALL THINGS TO THEIR REMEMBRANCE. I think that God, in his tender love and pity for Tidy, sent the Holy Ghost to bring to her remembrance those things which had long been buried in her heart; and at that tranquil hour, in that still, lonely spot, when her spirit was tender with sorrow, she was just in the condition to receive his influences, and give attention to the thoughts he had stirred up within her. And coming to her perception quickly, like a flash of light, as truth often does, it seemed to her excited imagination like an audible voice, and the words had all the effect upon her of a direct revelation from heaven.

This striking experience refreshed the poor girl, and nerved her anew for her toils and trials. She felt hope again dawning within her; and though she could see no way, she had faith to believe that the Lord would appear for her rescue. She prayed the new prayer constantly. It was her first thought in the morning, and her last at night, and during every moment of the livelong day was in her heart or on her lips.

One forenoon, as she was drawing her weary length along with the accustomed gang, picking the ripe, bursting cotton-bolls, a messenger arrived to say that she was wanted by the master. She almost fainted at the summons. What could he want her for? Surely it was not for good. Was he going to inflict cruelty again as unmerited as it had before been? She threw off her cotton-sack from her neck, to obey the summons; but she trembled so that she could scarcely walk. Her knees smote one against another, her heart throbbed, and her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth in her excitement and fright. As she drew near to the house, she perceived her master with haughty strides walking up and down the veranda, his hands behind him and his head thrown back, his whole appearance bearing witness to the proud, imperious spirit within. A gentleman of milder aspect was seated on a chair, intently eying Tidy as she approached, and she heard him say,—

"Can you recommend her, Turner? Do you really think she is capable of filling the place?"

"Capable!" said the master. "Take off that bag, and dress her, and you'll see. TOO smart, that's her fault. YOU'LL see."

"I like her looks; I'll try her," was the reply; and this was all the intimation Tidy had that she had been transferred to another master. Her heart leaped within her at what she heard; but when peremptorily told to get ready to follow Mr. Meesham, she hesitated. What for, do you think? Her first impulse was to throw herself at her master's feet, and ask what had induced him to sell her. But she dared not. He cast upon her a glance of such spurning contempt that she cringed before him. But she made up her mind that God only could have moved that stern, proud man to change a purpose which he had declared to be inflexible. She was right. God, who controls all hearts, and can turn them withersoever he pleases, in answer to prayer, had moved that stubborn heart.

Thus the first part of Tidy's new prayer was answered.