But we had heard above all the glorious words, “This mortal shall put on immortality,” and “O, death, where is thy sting? O, grave, where is thy victory?”
CHAPTER XXVII.
A REMINISCENCE.
“Sister, you are not paying any attention whatever to my reading, and you are losing the most beautiful thoughts in this delightful book.”
“Yes, and I am sorry to do so; but I think I see one of Rachel’s children—Madaline or Frances.”
My sister closed her book, and, looking in the direction indicated, agreed with me that the negro woman, clothed in the habiliments of widowhood, who was coming up the avenue with a little boy by her side and one in her arms, was one of Rachel’s children; and, although she was scarcely in her teens when she went away, she was a mother now, and traces of care were visible in every lineament of her face. I recognized her, however, as Rachel’s youngest daughter, Frances, and went to meet her.
“Is that you, Frances?” I asked.
“Yes, Miss Mary, this is me; your same nigger Frances, and these are my children.”