e
that the spot could not be readily designated. To look upon a grave, and
not feel certain whose ashes repose beneath the sod, is painful, and the
doubt which mystifies you, weakens the force, if not the purity, of the
love-offering from the heart. Memory preserved a sunny picture of my
mother's face, and I did not wish to weave sombre threads--threads
suggestive of a deserted grave-yard--into it, and thus impair its
beauty. After spending a few weeks with the family, I returned to St.
Louis, and then came North. The war broke out, and I lost all trace of
the Garlands. Often, during my residence in Washington, I recalled the
past, and wondered what had become of those who claimed my first duty
and my first love. When I would mention their names and express interest
in their welfare, my Northern friends would roll up their eyes in
surprise.

"Why, Lizzie, how can you have a kind thought for those who inflicted a
terrible wrong upon you by keeping you in bondage?" they would ask.

"You forget the past is dear to every one, for to the past belongs that
golden period, the days of childhood. The past is a mirror that reflects
the chief incidents of my life. To surrender it is to surrender the
greatest part of my existence--early impressions, friends, and the
graves of my father, my mother, and my son. These people are associated
with everything that memory holds dear, and so long as memory proves
faithful, it is but natural that I should sigh to see them once more."

"But they have forgotten you. They are too selfish to give a single
thought to you, now that you no longer are their slave."

"Perhaps so, but I cannot believe it. You do not know the Southern
people as well as I do--how warm is the attachment between master and
slave."

My Northern friends could not understand the feeling, therefore
explanation was next to useless. They would listen with impatience, and
remark at the close, with a shrug of the shoulders, "You have some
strange notions, Lizzie."

In the fall of 1865 a lady called on me at my apartments in Washington.
Her face looked familiar, but I could not place her. When I entered the
room, she came towards me eagerly:

"You are surprised to see me, I know. I am just from Lynchburg, and when
I left cousin Ann[e] I promised to call and see you if I came to
Washington. I am here, you see, according to promise."

I was more bewildered than ever.

"Cousin Ann[e]! Pardon me--"

"Oh, I see you do not