colored woman, who, with high-turbaned head, moved busily about
Leah's apartment, folding garments and packing trunks, and sighing,
ever and anon, as though enduring heart-felt grief at the prospect
of the approaching parting.

"Yes, dear chile, I'll tell him, if you wish. Dere is not many more
times for your dear feet to pass in and out of de lodge;" and
accompanying these simple, pathetic words was an outburst of honest
tears, that fell upon the tidy white apron which the kind soul held
to her eyes.

"Will you miss me, Aunt Barbara, when I am gone?" said Leah, deeply
moved by the old colored woman's manifestation of sorrow.

"Law, chile, God only knows how ole Aunt Barbara will miss you. But
I'll pray de good Lord to keep you safe from harm, when you are so
far away, and bring you back to us again, one day."

"Suppose I never come back, Aunt Barbara; will you ever forget me?"

The old woman made no reply, but her ponderous frame shook
convulsively, with excessive emotion. Leah then approached this
faithful friend, and laying her arm around her neck, said tenderly,
"Don't cry so, Aunt Barbara, but cheer me with the hope that some
day I'll come back to you." The sound of approaching footsteps in
the hall dried Aunt Barbara's tears, and when she opened the door in
response to a gentle tap, her face was as placid as a summer lake.

"Is it you, father? Come in," said Leah, looking up to meet her
father's eye.