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The slim； barefoot girl； with sparkling eyes and voluminous hair； who
played about the yard and sometimes handed water in a gourd to travelers；
did not long escape critical observation。 A gentleman drove by one day；
stopped at the well； smiled upon the girl； and said kind words。 He came
again； more than once； and soon； while scarcely more than a child in years；
Molly was living in her own house； hers by deed of gift； for her protector
was rich and liberal。 Her mother nevermore knew want。 Her poor
relations could always find a meal in Molly's kitchen。 She did not flaunt
her prosperity in the world's face； she hid it discreetly behind the cedar
screen。 Those who wished could know of it； for there were few secrets in
Patesville； those who chose could as easily ignore it。 There were few to
trouble themselves about the secluded life of an obscure woman of a class
which had no recognized place in the social economy。 She worshiped the
ground upon which her lord walked； was humbly grateful for his
protection； and quite as faithful as the forbidden marriage vow could
possibly have made her。 She led her life in material peace and comfort；
and with a certain amount of dignity。 Of her false relation to society she
was not without some vague conception； but the moral point involved was
so confused with other questions growing out of slavery and caste as to
cause her； as a rule； but little uneasiness； and only now and then； in the
moments of deeper feeling that come sometimes to all who live and love；
did there break through the mists of ignorance and prejudice surrounding
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her a flash of light by which she saw； so far as she was capable of seeing；
her true position； which in the clear light of truth no special pleading could
entirely justify。 For she was free； she had not the slave's excuse。 With
every inducement to do evil and few incentives to do well； and hence
entitled to charitable judgment； she yet had freedom of choice； and
therefore could not wholly escape blame。 Let it be said； in further
extenuation； that no other woman lived in neglect or sorrow because of her。
She robbed no one else。 For what life gave her she returned an
equivalent； and what she did not pay； her children settled to the last
farthing。
Several years before the war； when Mis' Molly's daughter Rena was a
few years old； death had suddenly removed the source of their prosperity。
The household was not left entirely destitute。 Mis' Molly owned her
home； and had a store of gold pieces in the chest beneath her bed。 A
small piece of real estate stood in the name of each of the children； the
income from which contributed to their maintenance。 Larger
expectations were dependent upon the discovery of a promised will； which
never came to light。 Mis' Molly wore black for several years after this
bereavement； until the teacher and the preacher； following close upon the
heels of military occupation； suggested to the colored people new
standards of life and character； in the light of which Mis' Molly laid her
mourning sadly and shamefacedly aside。 She had eaten of the fruit of the
Tree of Knowledge。 After the war she formed the habit of church…going；
and might have been seen now and then； with her daughter； in a retired
corner of the gallery of the white Episcopal church。 Upon the ground
floor was a certain pew which could be seen from her seat； where once
had sat a gentleman whose pleasures had not interfered with the practice
of his religion。 She might have had a better seat in a church where a
Northern missionary would have preached a sermon better suited to her
comprehension and her moral needs； but she preferred the other。 She was
not white； alas！ she was shut out from this seeming paradise； but she liked
to see the distant glow of the celestial city； and to recall the days when she
had basked in its radiance。 She did not sympathize greatly with the new
era opened up for the emancipated slaves； she had no ideal love of liberty；
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she was no broader and no more altruistic than the white people around
her； to whom she had always looked up； and she sighed for the old days；
because to her they had been the good days。 Now； not only was her king
dead； but the shield of his memory protected her no longer。
Molly had lost one child； and his grave was visible from the kitchen
window； under a small clump of cedars in the rear of the two…acre lot。
For even in the towns many a household had its private cemetery in those
old days when the living were close to the dead； and ghosts were not the
mere chimeras of a sick imagination； but real though unsubstantial entities；
of which it was almost disgraceful not to have seen one or two。 Had not
the Witch of Endor called up the shade of Samuel the prophet？ Had not
the spirit of Mis' Molly's dead son appeared to her； as well as the ghostly
presence of another she had loved？
In 1855； Mis' Molly's remaining son had grown into a tall； slender lad
of fifteen； with his father's patrician features and his mother's Indian hair；
and no external sign to mark him off from the white boys on the street。
He soon came to know； however； that there was a difference。 He was
informed one day that he was black。 He denied the proposition and
thrashed the child who made it。 The scene was repeated the next day；
with a variation；he was himself thrashed by a larger boy。 When he had
been beaten five or six times； he ceased to argue the point； though to
himself he never admitted the charge。 His playmates might call him
black； the mirror proved that God； the Father of all； had made him white；
and God； he had been taught； made no mistakes；having made him white；
He must have meant him to be white。
In the 〃hall〃 or parlor of his mother's house stood a quaintly carved
black walnut bookcase； containing a small but remarkable collection of
books； which had at one time been used； in his hours of retreat and
relaxation from business and politics； by the distinguished gentleman who
did not give his name to Mis' Molly's children；to whom it would have
been a valuable heritage； could they have had the right to bear it。 Among
the books were a volume of Fielding's complete works； in fine print； set in
double columns； a set of Bulwer's novels； a collection of everything that
Walter Scottthe literary idol of the Southhad ever written； Beaumont
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and Fletcher's plays； cheek by jowl with the history of the virtuous
Clarissa Harlowe； the Spectator and Tristram Shandy； Robinson Crusoe
and the Arabian Nights。 On these secluded shelves Roderick Random；
Don Quixote； and Gil Blas for a long time ceased their wanderings； the
Pilgrim's Progress was suspended； Milton's mighty harmonies were dumb；
and Shakespeare reigned over a silent kingdom。 An illustrated Bible；
with a wonderful Apocrypha； was flanked on one side by Volney's Ruins
of Empire and on the other by Paine's Age of Reason； for the collector of
the books had been a man of catholic taste as well as of inquiring mind；
and no one who could have criticised his reading ever penetrated behind
the cedar hedge。 A history of the French Revolution consorted amiably
with a homespun chronicle of North Carolina； rich in biographical notices
of distinguished citizens and inscriptions from their tombstones； upon
reading which one might well wonder why North Carolina had not long
ago eclipsed