nd
are gone, and are buried, no one but himself knows where. He does not
look upon the pale faces as brothers, though they treat him kindly. He
feels that wrong has been shown his ancestors at their hands. I am glad,
my child, that you were kind to the Indian."

"Yes, mother, I love everybody; but I think I love those best who look
as if no one cared for them. I suppose everybody loves poor Quady, only
they forget to let him know it."

"You like dat old Ingin, Sea-flower? why, he almost as black as Bingo
hesef."

"Do you think I do not love you, Vingo, because you are black? You are
always good to me, and what would I do without you to take me to the
shore, whenever I like to go?"

"O, little missy, I tink you can sympetize wid old black Bingo; but den,
ebry body not like you; you's one ob de Lord's chilen hesef."

"We are all the Lord's children, Vingo," said Mrs. Grosvenor; "and we
should walk in the paths of righteousness, that we may be worthy of his
name. You may go, now."

"What does Vingo mean, mother? he talks so strangely sometimes about my
being left here by the Lord, and goes on muttering something to himself,
which I cannot understand, and laughs as if he was very happy."

"It is his way of expressing himself, my dear; the negroes are a
peculiar race."

"Yes, I think they are; I like their ways, they are always so kind. Are
not their dispositions better than those of some white people? I never
heard of a black man being cruel to any one, but I have seen the prints
of a whip-lash on Vingo's neck, where he said his old massa used to
whip him; and I asked him many times over, if he was sure it was a white
man who whipped him, and he said yes, he was sure, for he remembers he
used to wish white folks were black, so they could not tell which were
the negroes."

"There are some very hard-hearted people in the world. Vingo was brought
up in slavery; when you are a little older you will understand
it better."

"Dear mother, you know what is best for me; but often, when I am
interested in what is said, and ask questions, people tell me I will
understand it when I am a little older; and when I sit down by myself,
and they think I have forgotten all about it, I find myself wishing I
was "a little older," for it disappoints me so much to leave a story not
finished."

Mrs. Grosvenor looked at the child in silence.

"I have not displeased you, dear mother, have I? I did not feel that I was
saying anything