me this triumph of guilt meant the downfall of my early creed, the destruction of my most cherished convictions. Never again might I look forward with hopeful heart to the inevitably righting of all wrong things; never again might I trust with old-time confidence to the final readjustment of a closing chapter. Even Emerson's essay on "Compensation" has failed to restore to me the full measure of all that I lost through the "The Heir of Redclyffe."
The last work to injure me seriously as a girl, and to root up the good seed sown in long years of righteous education, was "Uncle Tom's Cabin," which I read from cover to cover with the innocent credulity of youth; and, when I had finished, the awful conviction forced itself upon me that the thirteenth amendment was a ghastly error, and that the war had been fought in vain. Slavery, which had seemed to me before undeviatingly wicked, now shone in a new and alluring light. All things must be judged by their results, and if the result of slavery was to produce a race so infinitely superior to common humanity; if it bred strong, capable, self-
