For two years my daughter and I supported ourselves comfortably
in Boston. At the end of that time, my brother William offered to
send Ellen to a boarding school. It required a great effort for me
to consent to part with her, for I had few near ties, and it was
her presence that made my two little rooms seem home-like. But my
judgment prevailed over my selfish feelings. I made preparations for
her departure. During the two years we had lived together I had often
resolved to tell her something about her father; but I had never
been able to muster sufficient courage. I had a shrinking dread of
diminishing my child’s love. I knew she must have curiosity on the
subject, but she had never asked a question. She was always very
careful not to say any thing to remind me of my troubles. Now that she
was going from me, I thought if I should die before she returned, she
might hear my story from some one who did not understand the palliating
circumstances; and that if she were entirely ignorant on the subject,
her sensitive nature might receive a rude shock.
When we retired for the night, she said, “Mother, it is very hard to
leave you alone. I am almost sorry I am going, though I do want to
improve myself. But you will write to me often; won’t you, mother?”
I did not throw my arms round her. I did not answer her. But in a calm,
solemn way, for it cost me great effort, I said, “Listen to me, Ellen;
I have something to tell you!” I recounted my early sufferings in
slavery, and told her how nearly they had crushed me. I began to tell
her how they had driven me into a great sin, when she clasped me in her
arms, and exclaimed, “O, don’t, mother! Please don’t tell me any more.”