On the return of Mrs. Cox to St. Louis she sent for my mother and told
her that Nancy had run away. Mother was very thankful, and in her
heart arose a prayer of thanksgiving, but outwardly she pretended to
be vexed and angry. Oh! the impenetrable mask of these poor black
creatures! how much of joy, of sorrow, of misery and anguish have they
hidden from their tormentors!

I was a small girl at that time, but remember how wildly mother
showed her joy at Nancy's escape when we were alone together. She
would dance, clap her hands, and, waving them above her head, would
indulge in one of those weird negro melodies, which so charm and
fascinate the listener.

Mrs. Cox commenced housekeeping on a grand and extended scale, having
a large acquaintance, she entertained lavishly. My mother cared for
the laundry, and I, who was living with a Mrs. Underhill, from New
York, and was having rather good times, was compelled to go live with
Mrs. Cox to mind the baby. My pathway was thorny enough, and though
there may be no roses without thorns, I had thorns in plenty with no
roses.

I was beginning to plan for freedom, and was forever on the alert for
a chance to escape and join my sister. I was then twelve years old,
and often talked the matter over with mother and canvassed the
probabilities of both of us getting away. No schemes were too wild
for us to consider! Mother was especially restless, because she was a
free woman up to the time of her being kidnapped, so the injustice and
weight of slavery bore more heavily upon her than upon me. She did not
dare to talk it over with anyone for fear that they would sell her