Up to the morning (a beautiful summer morning) when we were to start, and, indeed, during the whole journey--a journey which, child as I was, I remember as well as if it were yesterday--she kept the sad fact hidden from me.

This reserve was necessary; for, could I have known all, I should have given grandmother some trouble in getting me started.

As it was, I was helpless, and she--dear woman!--led me along by the hand, resisting, with the reserve and solemnity of a priestess, all my inquiring looks to the last.
The distance from Tuckahoe to Wye river--where my old master lived--was full twelve miles, and the walk was quite a severe test of the endurance of my young legs.

The journey would have proved too severe for me, but that my dear old grandmother--blessings on her memory!--afforded occasional relief by "toting" me (as Marylanders have it) on her shoulder.

My grandmother, though advanced in years--as was evident from more than one gray hair, which peeped from between the ample and graceful folds of her newly-ironed bandana turban--was yet a woman of power and spirit.