very near to us. Ah, well do I remember them! I could call each by name now, and the order in which they came. An impressive silence ensued, broken by the man of God uttering in hopeful intonation and animated manner, "She is not dead, but sleepeth," and a sermon followed upon the resurrection of God's people, never surpassed in interest and pathos. All felt the power of his theme, and the eloquence of his words. He also spoke of the humble modesty of his friend, who had counted herself least in the congregation of the righteous, and dispensed favors to others in an unobtrusive manner, and who practically illustrated the divine. command: "Do unto others as ye would that others should do unto you." This beautiful funeral tribute was succeeded by the hymn—

"Rock of ages, cleft for me,"

which was sung with an unction which none but Christians can feel.

The last earthly look, solemn and earnest, was taken of our long-suffering, patient, loving mother, and everybody in the house followed our example and gazed reverently upon the pretty face, cold in death. And then the pall-bearers, “Johnnie” Kirkpatrick, "Johnnie” Hardeman, Virgil Wilson and Mr. G. W. Houston, bore her to the grave.

With uncovered head and grey locks fluttering in the vernal breeze, Dr. Wilson repeated the beautiful burial service of the Presbyterian Church. I can never describe the utter desolation of feeling I experienced as I stood clasped in the arms of my sister, and heard the first

spadeful of earth fall over the remains of our loved

one.

But we had heard above all the glorious words, "This mortal shall put on immortality," and "O, death, where is thy sting? O, grave, where is thy victory?"

CHAPTER XXVII.

A REMINISCENCE.

"Sister, you are not paying any attention whatever to my reading, and you are losing the most beautiful thoughts in this delightful book."

"Yes, and I am sorry to do so; but I think I see one of Rachel's children-Madeline or Frances."

My sister closed her book, and, looking in the direction indicated, agreed with me that the negro woman, clothed in the habiliments of widowhood, who was coming up the avenue with a little boy by her side and one in her arms, was one of Rachel's children; and, although she was scarcely in her teens when she went away, she was a mother now, and traces of care were visible in every lineament of her face. I recognized her, however, as Rachel's youngest daughter, Frances, and went to meet her.

"Is that you, Frances?" I asked

"Yes, Miss Mary, this is me; your same nigger Frances, and these are my children."

"I am glad to see you and your children"; and I extended my hand in genuine cordiality to her who had once been a slave in my mother's family, and I bade her welcome to her old home. Frances was too de

monstrative to be satisfied with simply hand-clasping, and putting her boy on the ground, she threw her arms around me and literally overwhelmed me with kisses. My hands, neck and face were covered with them, and she picked me up and carried me in her arms to the house, her children following in amazed astonishment. She now turned her attention to them, and, after deliberately shaking the wrinkles out of their clothes, she as deliberately introduced them to me. The older of the two she introduced as "King by name," and the younger as "Lewis by name."

"You see, Miss Mary, I named my children King and Lewis 'cause my white folks named my brothers King and Lewis.

The ceremony of introducing her sons to her old white folks being performed to her satisfaction, she again turned her attention to me, and again literally overwhelmed me with caresses.

Entering the house, I asked Frances and her children to come in, too.

"Miss Mary, whar's Miss Polly?"

"Have you not heard, Frances, that ma is dead?" "Seem to me I has heard somethin' about it, but some how I didn't believe it. And my poor Miss Polly is dead! Well, she ain't dead, but she's gone to heaven."

And Frances became quite hysterical in demonstrations of grief.

"And Marse Thomie, what about him, Miss Mary?" "He was killed by the enemy at Franklin, Tennessee, the 30th of November, 1864."

"Miss Mary, did them old Yankees kill him?"
"Yes, he was killed in battle."

And again, whether sincere or affected, Frances became hysterical in demonstrations of grief.

"Miss Mary, whar's Miss Missouri? Is she dead, too ?"

"No; that was she who was sitting in the portico with me as you were coming up the avenue. She always has to go off and compose herself before meeting any of you-ma was that way, too-I suppose you remind her of happier days, and the contrast is so sad that she is overcome by grief and has to get relief in tears."

"Yes'm, I have to cry, too, and it does me a monstrous heap of good. I know it's mighty childish, but I jest can't help it. Jest to think all my white folks is done dead but Miss Mary and Miss Missouri!"

"Our brother left a dear little boy in Texas, and I am going after him next winter. He and his mother are going to live with us, and then we will not be so lonely."

"That's so, Miss Mary."

Frances and her children having partaken of a bountiful supper, she resumed with renewed vigor, her erratic conversation, which consisted, chiefly, of innumerable questions, interspersed with much miraculous information regarding herself since she left her white folks and became a wife, a mother, and a widow.

"Miss Mary, whar's my children going to sleep tonight?"

"With your help I will provide a comfortable place for them, and, also, for you."