"Uncle Will wants to know if he can come in to see you, Miss Ida," said Rachel, one Sabbath afternoon.
Ida was dressed, and rocking herself listlessly before the fire. "Let him come," she replied, languidly.
This man was her mother's steward and factotum; a hale, fine-looking negro; better educated than the generality of his caste, and devotedly pious. He brushed off a tear with the back of his hand, as his mistress greeted him. He had not seen her since she was grown, and was moved by her likeness to her mother.
"You would not have known me,—would you, uncle Will?" she asked.
"Yes ma'am; you are your mother's own child."
"Indeed! I am called like my father."
"You're like her, ma'am—in body, and like her in spirit, too I hope."
"No, Uncle Will, you cannot expect that;—she was an angel."
"Better than that, Mistis—she was a Christian!"
"And how is that better?" said Ida, surprised at the reply. "She is an angel now—is she not?"