"Why should I not forgive thee, Jane? I would not chide thee, for no
sin is on thy garments. Injustice gave master the right to sell
thee, to make of thee what he pleased. Heaven made thy soul
purest,--man thy body an outcast for the unrighteous to feast upon.
How could I withhold forgiveness, Jane? I will be a father to them,
a husband to thee; for what thou hast been compelled to do is right,
in the land we live in." So saying, he again embraces her, wipes the
tears from her eyes, and comforts her. How sweet is forgiveness! It
freshens like the dew of morning on the drooping plant; it
strengthens the weary spirit, it steals into the desponding soul,
and wakes to life new hopes of bliss,--to the slave it is sweet
indeed!
"I will kiss them, too," he ejaculates, taking them in his arms with
the embrace of a fond father,--which simple expression of love they
return with prattling. They know not the trials of their parents;
how blessed to know them not!
And now they gather the children around them, and seat themselves on
a little settee near the window, where Harry, overjoyed at meeting
his dear ones once more, fondles them and listens to Jane, as with
her left arm round his neck she discloses the sad tale of her
tribulation. Let us beg the reader to excuse the recital; there is
nothing fascinating in it, nor would we call forth the modest
blushes of our generous south. A few words of the woman's story,
however, we cannot omit; and we trust the forgiving will pardon
their insertion.
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