Walker, who kindly consented to receive her as an inmate of her household, and immediately succeeded in procuring work for her as a "straw sewer." Being very ingenious, she soon acquired the art of making hats; but on account of former hard treatment, her constitution was greatly im-paired, and she was subject to seasons of sickness. On this account Mrs. W. gave her a room joining her own chamber, where she could hear her faintest call. Never shall I forget the expression of her "black, but comely" face, as she came to me one day, exclaiming, "O, aunt J-----, I have at last found a HOME,--and not only a home, but a MOTHER.
My cup runneth over. What shall I render to the Lord for all his benefits?"
Months passed on, and she was HAPPY--truly happy.
Her health began to improve under the genial sunshine in which she lived, and she even looked forward with HOPE--joyful hope to the future. But, alas, "it is not in man that walketh to direct his steps." One beautiful morning in the early spring of 1842, as she was taking her usual walk, she chanced to meet her old friend, the "lecturer," who brought her to W-----, and with him was a fugitive slave. Young, well-formed and very handsome, he said he had been a HOUSE-servant, which seemed to account in some measure for his gentlemanly manners and pleasing address. The meeting was entirely accidental; but it was a sad occurrence for poor Alfrado, as her own sequel tells. Suffice it to say, an acquaintance and attachment was formed, which, in due time, resulted in marriage. In a few days she left W-----, and ALL her home comforts, and took up her abode in New Hamp-shire. For a while everything went on well, and she dreamed not of danger; but in an evil hour he left his young and trusting wife, and embarked for sea. She knew nothing of all this, and waited for his return. But she waited in vain.
Days passed, weeks passed, and he came not; then her heart failed her. She felt herself deserted at a time, when, of all others, she most needed the care and soothing attentions of a devoted husband. For a time she tried to sustain HERSELF, but this was impossible. She had friends, but they were mostly of that class who are poor in the things of earth, but "rich in faith." The charity on which she depended failed at last, and there was nothing to save her from the "County House;" GO SHE MUST. But her feelings on her way thither, and after her arrival, can be given better in her own language; and I trust it will be no breach of confidence if I here insert part of a letter she wrote her mother Walker, concerning the matter.
* * * "The evening before I left for my dreaded jour-ney to the 'house' which was to be my abode, I packed my trunk, carefully placing in it every little memento of affection received from YOU and my friends in W-----, among which was the portable inkstand, pens and paper. My beautiful little Bible was laid aside, as a place nearer my heart was reserved for that. I need not tell you I slept not a moment that night. My home, my peaceful, quiet home with you, was before me. I could see my dear little room, with its pleasant eastern window opening to the morning; but more than all, I beheld YOU, my mother, gliding softly in and kneeling by my bed to read, as no one but you CAN read, 'The Lord is my shepherd,--I shall not want.' But I cannot go on, for tears blind me. For a deion of the morning, and of the scant breakfast, I must wait until another time.
"We started. The man who came for me was kind as he could be,--helped me carefully into the wagon, (for I had no strength,) and drove on. For miles I spoke not a word.
Then the silence would be broken by the driver uttering some sort of word the horse seemed to understand; for he invariably quickened his pace. And so, just before nightfall, we halted at the institution, prepared for the HOMELESS. With cold civility the matron received me, and bade one of the inmates shew me my room. She did so; and I followed up two flights of stairs. I crept as I was able; and when she said, 'Go in there,' I obeyed, asking for my trunk, which was soon placed by me. My room was furnished some like the 'prophet's chamber,' except there was no 'candlestick;' so when I could creep down I begged for a light, and it was granted. Then I flung myself on the bed and cried, until I could cry no longer.
I rose up and tried to pray; the Saviour seemed near. I opened my precious little Bible, and the first verse that caught my eye was--'I am poor and needy, yet the Lord thinketh upon me.' O, my mother, could I tell you the comfort this was to me. I sat down, calm, almost happy, took my pen and wrote on the inspiration of the moment--
"O, holy Father, by thy power, Thus far in life I'm brought;
And now in this dark, trying hour, O God, forsake me not.
"Dids't thou not nourish and sustain My infancy and youth?
Have I not testimonials plain, Of thy unchanging truth?
"Though I've no home to call my own, My heart shall not repine;
The saint may live on earth unknown, And yet in glory shine.
"When my Redeemer dwelt below, He chose a lowly lot;
He came unto his own, but lo!
His own received him not.
"Oft was the mountain his abode, The cold, cold earth his bed;
The midnight moon shone softly down On his unsheltered head.
"But MY head WAS SHELTERED, and I tried to feel thankful."
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