had been taught to pray for him every night. She felt sure he was living.
But, where? Why did he not come home and pet her, like other little girls'
papas she knew--pet her, and make her beautiful, sad mother smile
sometimes. For it seemed to the child that she grew sadder and sadder all
the time. There was nobody she could talk to about him, for her mamma's
eyes filled with tears at any chance allusion to him. Aunt Betsy nearly
snapped her head off when she asked her a question, and Uncle Squire,
chatty as he was upon every other subject, would squint his eyes in a
knowing way, puff out his cheeks, and answer, "Lay o'ers ter ketch
meddlers." Yes, there was one person she was sure she could coax into
telling her why her papa never came home to see them all, and that was
dear, good Mam' Sarah, the weaver. When Aunt Betsy scolded Mam' Sarah, she
would get down on the floor by Aunt Betsy and hug her tight around the
knees and say, "God love you, Mistiss," to show her she wasn't mad at her
for scolding her. That was "religion," mamma said. Aunt Betsy would cry,
and say:

"Get up, Sarah, you make me ashamed of myself."

Yes, she would go to Mam' Sarah at the loom-house. It was considered a
great treat by Roberta to go down to the loom-house. That was where the
wool, cotton, and flax was carded, spun, and wove, then manufactured into
winter and summer clothes for the negroes on the place. Yard upon yard of
beautiful red and black flannel, blue and brown linseys, and blue and
white striped cottonades, for the women, jeans for the men, and that
coarse fabric called tow-linen made from the refuse of flax. The
wonderful counterpanes, I have mentioned before, were manufactured there
and the linen for sheets and towels. Let me tell you something curious
while I am on the subject of the loom-house: Roberta's grandmother raised
silk-worms in the room adjoining. She fed them on mulberry leaves. Mam'