a sleeping infant, save its mother? Here, in this rude cabin,
is a mother's heart,--tender with its holy affections, and all aglow
with delight, as she gazes on the beautiful vision before her.

We must call the mother Annie. She had but one name, for she was a slave.
Like the horse or the dog, she must have some appellation by which,
as an individual, she might be designated; a sort of appendage
on which to hang, as it were, the commands, threats, and severities
that from time to time might be administered; but farther
than that, for her own personal uses, why did she need a name?
She was not a person, only a thing,--a piece of property belonging
to the Carroll estate.

But for all that, she was a woman and a mother. God had sealed her such,
and who could obliterate his impress, or rob her of the crown
he had placed about her head,--a crown of thorns though it were?
Her heart was as full of all sweet motherly instincts as if she
had been born in a more favored condition; and the swarthy
complexion of her child made it no less dear or lovely in her sight;
while a consciousness of its degradation and sad future served only
to deepen and intensify her love. She knew what her child was born
to suffer; but affection thrust far away the evil day, that she
might not lose the happiness of the present. The babe was hers,--
her own,--and for long years yet would be her joy and comfort.

Annie had other children, but they were wild, romping boys, grown out
of their babyhood, and so very naturally left to run and take care
of themselves. She had not ceased to love them, however, and would
have manifested it more, but for the idol, the little girl baby,
which had now for nearly a year nestled in her arms, and completely