this life will be of no account there,
where the humblest Christian love is preferred before the most brilliant
selfishness,--where the master is degraded, and the servant is exalted.
And so forth, and so forth; a brief, but eloquent address, of which it
is to be regretted that no report exists.

Then came the prayer,--for the Judge had a gift that way too; and the
tenderness and true feeling with which he spoke of the old negro and the
wrongs of his race drew tears from many eyes. Then a hymn was
sung,--those who had stayed to sneer joining their voices seriously with
those of the lowly mourners.

A few days later, Mr. Williams had the remains of his child taken from
the old burying-ground, and brought here, and laid beside the patriarch.
And before spring, simple tombstones of white marble (at Gingerford's
expense) marked the spot, and commemorated the circumstances of the old
man's extreme age and early bondage.

And before spring, alas! three other graves were added to that sunny
bank! One by one, all those fair children whom Fessenden's had seen in
the warm room where the fire was had followed their sister to the tomb.
So fast they followed that Mr. Frisbie had no time to move his
family-vault from the degrading proximity of the negro graves. And
Fessenden's still lived, an orphan, yet happy, in the family of blacks
which had adopted him; while the parents of those children, who had
loved them, were left alone in the costly house, desolate. Was it, as
some supposed, a judgment upon Frisbie for his pride? I cannot tell. I
only know, that, in the end, that pride was utterly broken,--and that,
when the fine words of the young minister failed to console him, when
sympathizing friends surrounded him, and Gingerford came to visit him,
and they were reconciled, he turned from them all, and gratefully
received hope and comfort from the lips of a humble old Christian who
had nursed the last of his children in her days and nights of suffering,
almost against his will.

That Christian? It was the old negro woman.

Early in the spring, Mr. Williams----But no more! Haven't we already
prolonged our sketch to an intolerable length, considering the subject
of it? Not a lover in it! and, of course, it is preposterous to think of
making a readable story without one. Why didn't we make young Gingerford
in love with--let's see--Miss Frisbie? and Miss Frisbie's brother (it
would have required but a stroke of the pen to give her on