te to my father; and when he
could not prevail to make me talk, dashed off passionately and left
me. I went trembling into my room. But my refuge there was gone. I had
fallen upon evil times. My door must not be locked, and Miss Pinshon
might come in any minute. I could not pray. I undressed and went to
bed; and lay there, waiting, all things in order, till my governess
looked in. Then the door was closed, and I heard her steps moving
about in her room. I lay and listened. At last the door was softly set
open again; and then after a few minutes the sound of regular slow
breathing proclaimed that those wide-open black eyes were really
closed for the night. I got up, went to my governess's door and
listened. She was sleeping profoundly. I laid hold of the handle of
the door and drew it towards me; pulled out the key softly, put it in
my own side of the lock and shut the door. And after all I was afraid
to turn the key. The wicked sound of the lock might enter those
sleeping ears. But the door was closed; and I went to my old place,
the open window. It was not my window at Melbourne, with balmy summer
air, and the dewy scent of the honeysuckle coming up, and the
moonlight flooding all the world beneath me. But neither was it in the
regions of the North. The night was still and mild, if not balmy; and
the stars were brilliant; and the evergreen oaks were masses of dark
shadow all over the lawn. I do not think I saw them at first; for my
look was up to the sky, where the stars shone down to greet me, and
where it was furthest from all the troubles on the surface of the
earth; and with one thought of the Friend up there, who does not
forget the troubles of even His little children, the barrier in my
heart gave way, my tears gushed forth; my head lay on the window-sill
at Magnolia, more hopelessly than in my childish sorrow it had ever
lain at Melbourne. I kept my sobs quiet; I must; but they were deep,
heartbreaking sobs, for a long time.

Prayer got its chance after a while. I had a great deal to pray for;
it seemed to my child's heart now and then as if it could hardly bear
its troubles. And very much I felt I wanted patience and wisdom. I
thought there was a great deal to do, even for my little hands; and
promise of great hindrance and opposition. And the only one pleasant
thing I could think of in my new life at Magnolia, was that I might
tell of the truth to those poor people who lived in the negro
quarters.

Why I di