You are as yet almost unacquainted with your mother's history." "Another time, mother; you are not well now," said Alice.
"Yes, my love, now.

You were born in the same house that I was; yet your infancy only was passed where I lived until my marriage.

I was motherless at an early age; indeed, one of the first remembrances that I recall is the bright and glowing summer evening when my mother was carried from our plantation on James River to the opposite shore, where was our family burial-ground.

Can I ever forget my father's uncontrolled grief, and the sorrow of the servants, as they followed, dressed in the deepest mourning.
I was terrified at the solemn and dark-looking bier, the black plumes that waved over it, and all the dread accompaniments of death.

I remember but little for years after this, save the continued gloom of my father, and his constant affection and indulgence toward me, and occasionally varying our quiet life by a visit to Richmond or Washington.
"My father was a sincere and practical Christian.