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down his head and seemed the very picture of despair. But Nathan relieved him somewhat at first by assuring him he would pay the fine himself, and still more, by persuading the justice to suspend the sentence, on the boy's promise that he would go out of town and engage with some strict master in an honorable service.

Bonds were given and the boy's release was granted, and Nathan had him by the hand, on the point of leading him to his mother, when she met them at the door of the justice's office. She had spent a night of painful anxiety, and, hearing from one of the other boys where her son might be found, she had gone to our house and followed us to court, and met them in time to learn what was done. I need not describe the scene that ensued, while I shall always remember the expressions of grief, mortification, and fear, that stood on that poor mother's face, the thanks she gave Nathan for his kindness to her son, and the readiness with which she consented to his proposal. To conclude this little narrative, George Milbank-for that was his name-was taken away from Salem before another week, and apprenticed to a farmer in Topsfield. As Friend Buxton took leave of him, he said to George, "Thee knows by this time, my child, that every vice has its punishment. Thee cannot escape: God loves us too well to permit us to be happy long in sin, or triumph long in evil, or be satisfied with any low or vicious life. So keep thy promise from this hour-be honest, get wisdom and honor, and do unto others in misfortune as we have done to thee."

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IX.

A YEAR before I left the Buxtons, Mr. Dorlon died, and Mrs. Dorlon removed to Merrimack, and placed Amelia in a mill. Amelia was pleased with her employment; it gave her an independence she had not enjoyed in Salem, and she was able to clothe herself better and help her mother She and I still kept up an acquaintance, and I was persuaded to leave Salem and enter the Lafayette Mill. The Buxtons assured me that they found it something of a trial to release me from their service. I had lived in their care so long they were attached to me, and they told me, when I left them, that it seemed like parting with one of their own daughters. The serene Quaker face strove in vain to conceal the emotions that were mounting from their warm hearts when they came to say farewell. But they encouraged the step. They believed it was not to dash in gayer apparel, or indulge in worldly joys, that I desired the better wages which were paid to factory girls. They did not seem to fear that I would forget their counsels, or compromise one of the principles they had planted in my heart; while they were aware that a trade might add considerably to my resources, confirm my independence, and elevate my life.

They heaped my trunk with useful presents; and they gave me a generous sum of money, besides my wages, and told me whenever I wanted friends, to come to them,-at all events, to make them frequent visits, for they should always love Mercy Winthrop, and send anxious thoughts after her. On the morning of my departure, I rose before day, and walked out in the twilight to take farewell of my favorite scenes. I went down to the water, and the rising sun recalled the scene with which I began my history, while the same white mist veiled the Juniper, and sheeted the Beverley woods with an unspotted, crapelike shadow, that fairly waved in the currents of light like a curtain in a breeze. I carried away that scene as another picture to illuminate my memory, while the bright sun daguerreotyped its glowing beauty on my mind. I bathed my hot forehead in the ocean-water, and picked up a shell and some pebbles and mosses, to keep in remembrance of that tender hour.

When I returned to Buxtons', I found several friends waiting there to give me a parting word. And among them all, there was no one whose love or blessing was much more welcome than Bessie Plympton's. She was a poor colored woman, it is true, and was despised by many for the darker shades which God had given her complexion, and was held as the lowliest and least regarded member of the Methodist church. From my earliest childhood, I was familiar with the hardships she had endured, and the insults which half a dozen ill-bred children gave her. I had seen the girls make fun of her eyes and lips, and point to her old bon

net and dress, and giggle, as she passed. I had heard the boys call her an old nigger wench, and ask how much she would take a pound for her ivory; saying they wanted to have it made up into combs. I knew they stoned her windows, pulled up her own darling sunflowers, and annoyed her in many ways. I had even heard parents laugh at their sports, (these were very few,) and one ludicrous looking mother inquired, "Was n't it keen in the little fellow?" when her own foolish, monkey-faced urchin - gave a dead rat to Bessie in a nice white paper one morning, and as she opened it, ran away shouting, "April fool! April fool!"

But poor as my own breeding was, it would have led me to respect her, if the instincts of my nature had not, while the warm summer light of Bessie's heart hid her dusky shades from honorable eyes, and fell as a blessing to be cherished. Bessie loved me and my brothers, and she could not let me go away without shaking my hand and giving me her prayers.

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'Good morning," said I to my friends; "good morning. I thank you for this farewell call.-Why, if here is not Bessie Plympton, too! How good you all are to me; -you, Bessie, in particular, have been so kind, I know not how I shall ever return your love! You were good to my poor father and mother-you need'nt blush and turn away, you were good to them, and I will say it; and think you, Bessie, I shall ever forget the sunflower you planted under mother's window because she would'nt allow you to do anything else for the little trifles that she sent you? Will I ever forget your kind blessings in her

sick-chamber; your watchings by night and day; your cheering words, your tears of love? Kind Bessie, you know not what a world of good it does me to see you here this morning!"

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"Ah, Maircy! I's afeard it's but leetle that poor old Bess ever done for yer folks!" answered she. I's alwers so poor I could'nt do or give as I wished I could. But yer mother was such a nice womern, and so dreadful clever, I could'nt help wantin to pay back her love. And yer father, I knowed him from a boy, and liked him wal, I always did, and ef I planted the sun-flower, I knowed it could'nt blossom half as bright as my love has blossomed for ye all. Ye've made me forget my old black skin, these many times, ye hev; and now ye wont scorn my poor good-bye, Maircy, ef Bess is black, ye wont, will ye, Maircy?"

“No, indeed, I will not, my dear friend," said I," and there is no one here that would scorn it any sooner for your complexion. They have seen your white heart, through all your dark color, and loved it, I assure you, Bessie."

"Then good bye, Maircy!" added she; "and be a good girl for old Bessie's sake; and mind what Missy Buxton tells ye. Don't listen, Maircy, to every slick tongue ye hear. Look out sharp fur sich pussons as smokes and swears, and wears brussels on their upper lips, and takes shew brushes for their under chins; and perks and perlavers, as thousands dew. Look out sharp fur sich like fellers, Maircy! They're slicker'n ile, and make love so

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