prompt:
Chapter: I hardly expect that the reader will credit me, when I affirm that I lived
in that little dismal hole, almost deprived of light and air, and with no
space to move my limbs, for nearly seven years. But it is a fact; and to me
a sad one, even now; for my body still suffers from the effects of that
long imprisonment, to say nothing of my soul. Members of my family, now
living in New York and Boston, can testify to the truth of what I say.

Countless were the nights that I sat late at the little loophole scarcely
large enough to give me a glimpse of one twinkling star. There, heard the
patrols and slave-hunters conferring together about the capture of
runaways, well knowing how rejoiced they would be to catch me.

Season after season, year after year, I peeped at my children's faces, and
heard their sweet voices, with a heart yearning all the while to say, "Your
mother is here." Sometimes it appeared to me as if ages had rolled away
since I entered upon that gloomy, monotonous existence. At times, I was
stupefied and listless; at other times I became very impatient to know when
these dark years would end, and I should again be allowed to feel the
sunshine, and breathe the pure air.

After Ellen left us, this feeling increased. Mr. Sands had agreed that
Benny might go to the north whenever his uncle Phillip could go with him;
and I was anxious to be there also, to watch over my children, and protect
them so far as I was able. Moreover, I was likely to be drowned out of my
den, if I remained much longer; for the slight roof was getting badly out
of repair, and uncle Phillip was afraid to remove the shingles, lest some
one should get a glimpse of me. When storms occurred in the night, they
spread mats and bits of carpet, which in the morning appeared to have been
laid out to dry; but to cover the roof in the daytime might have attracted
attention. Consequently, my clothes and bedding were often drenched; a
process by which the pains and aches in my cramped and stiffened limbs were
greatly increased. I revolved various plans of escape in my mind, which I
sometimes imparted to my grandmother, when she came to whisper with me at
the trap-door. The kind-hearted old woman had an intense sympathy for
runaways. She had known too much of the cruelties inflicted on those who
were captured. Her memory always flew back at once to the sufferings of her
bright and handsome son, Benjamin, the youngest and dearest of her flock.
So, whenever I alluded to the subject, she would groan out, "O, don't think
of it, child. You'll break my heart." I had no good old aunt Nancy now to
encourage me; but my brother William and my children were continually
beckoning me to the north.

And now I must go back a few months in my story. I have stated that the
first of January was the time for selling slaves, or leasing them out to
new masters. If time were counted by heart-throbs, the poor slaves might
reckon years of suffering during that festival so joyous to the free. On
the New Year's day preceding my aunt's death, one of my friends, named
Fanny, was to be sold at auction, to pay her master's debts. My thoughts
were with her during all the day, and at night I anxiously inquired what
had been her fate. I was told that she had been sold to one master, and her
four little girls to another master, far distant; that she had escaped from
her purchaser, and was not to be found. Her mother was the old Aggie I have
spoken of. She lived in a small tenement belonging to my grandmother, and
built on the same lot with her own house. Her dwelling was searched and
watched, and that brought the patrols so near me that I was obliged to keep
very close in my den. The hunters were somehow eluded; and not long
afterwards Benny accidentally caught sight of Fanny in her mother's hut. He
told his grandmother, who charged him never to speak of it, explaining to
him the frightful consequences; and he never betrayed the trust. Aggie
little dreamed that my grandmother knew where her daughter was concealed,
and that the stooping form of her old neighbor was bending under a similar
burden of anxiety and fear; but these dangerous secrets deepened the
sympathy between the two old persecuted mothers.

My friend Fanny and I remained many weeks hidden within call of each other;
but she was unconscious of the fact. I longed to have her share my den,
which seemed a more secure retreat than her own; but I had brought so much
trouble on my grandmother, that it seemed wrong to ask her to incur greater
risks. My restlessness increased. I had lived too long in bodily pain and
anguish of spirit. Always I was in dread that by some accident, or some
contrivance, slavery would succeed in snatching my children from me. This
thought drove me nearly frantic, and I determined to steer for the North
Star at all hazards. At this crisis, Providence opened an unexpected way
for me to escape. My friend Peter came one evening, and asked to speak with
me. "Your day has come, Linda," said he. "I have found a chance for you to
go to the Free States. You have a fortnight to decide." The news seemed too
good to be true; but Peter explained his arrangements, and told me all that
was necessary was for me to say I would go. I was going to answer him with
a joyful yes, when the thought of Benny came to my mind. I told him the
temptation was exceedingly strong, but I was terribly afraid of Dr. Flint's
alleged power over my child, and that I could not go and leave him behind.
Peter remonstrated earnestly. He said such a good chance might never occur
again; that Benny was free, and could be sent to me; and that for the sake
of my children's welfare I ought not to hesitate a moment. I told him I
would consult with uncle Phillip. My uncle rejoiced in the plan, and bade
me go by all means. He promised, if his life was spared, that he would
either bring or send my son to me as soon as I reached a place of safety. I
resolved to go, but thought nothing had better be said to my grandmother
till very near the time of departure. But my uncle thought she would feel
it more keenly if I left here so suddenly. "I will reason with her," said
he, "and convince her how necessary it is, not only for your sake, but for
hers also. You cannot be blind to the fact that she is sinking under her
burdens." I was not blind to it. I knew that my concealment was an
ever-present source of anxiety, and that the older she grew the more
nervously fearful she was of discovery. My uncle talked with her, and
finally succeeded in persuading her that it was absolutely necessary for me
to seize the chance so unexpectedly offered.

The anticipation of being a free woman proved almost too much for my weak
frame. The excitement stimulated me, and at the same time bewildered me. I
made busy preparations for my journey, and for my son to follow me. I
resolved to have an interview with him before I went, that I might give him
cautions and advice, and tell him how anxiously I should be waiting for him
at the north. Grandmother stole up to me as often as possible to whisper
words of counsel. She insisted upon writing to Dr. Flint, as soon as I
arrived in the Free States, and asking him to sell me to her. She said she
would sacrifice her house, and all she had in the world, for the sake of
having me safe with my children in any part of the world. If she could only
live to know _that_ she could die in peace. I promised the dear old
faithful friend that I would write to her as soon as I arrived, and put the
letter in a safe way to reach her; but in my own mind I resolved that not
another cent of her hard earnings should be spent to pay rapacious
slaveholders for what they called their property. And even if I had not
been unwilling to buy what I had already a right to possess, common
humanity would have prevented me from accepting the generous offer, at the
expense of turning my aged relative out of house and home, when she was
trembling on the brink of the grave.

I was to escape in a vessel; but I forbear to mention any further
particulars. I was in readiness, but the vessel was unexpectedly detained
several days. Meantime, news came to town of a most horrible murder
committed on a fugitive slave, named James. Charity, the mother of this
unfortunate young man, had been an old acquaintance of ours. I have told
the shocking particulars of his death, in my description of some of the
neighboring slaveholders. My grandmother, always nervously sensitive about
runaways, was terribly frightened. She felt sure that a similar fate
awaited me, if I did not desist from my enterprise. She sobbed, and
groaned, and entreated me not to go. Her excessive fear was somewhat
contagious, and my heart was not proof against her extreme agony. I was
grievously disappointed, but I promised to relinquish my project.

When my friend Peter was apprised of this, he was both disappointed and
vexed. He said, that judging from our past experience, it would be a long
time before I had such another chance to throw away. I told him it need not
be thrown away; that I had a friend concealed near by, who would be glad
enough to take the place that had been provided for me. I told him about
poor Fanny, and the kind-hearted, noble fellow, who never turned his back
upon any body in distress, white or black, expressed his readiness to help
her. Aggie was much surprised when she found that we knew her secret. She
was rejoiced to hear of such a chance for Fanny, and arrangements were made
for her to go on board the vessel the next night. They both supposed that I
had long been at the north, therefore my name was not mentioned in the
transaction. Fanny was carried on board at the appointed time, and stowed
away in a very small cabin. This accommodation had been purchased at a
price that would pay for a voyage to England. But when one proposes to go
to fine old England, they stop to calculate whether they can afford the
cost of the pleasure; while in making a bargain to escape from slavery, the
trembling victim is ready to say, "take all I have, only don't betray me!"

The next morning I peeped through my loophole, and saw that it was dark and
cloudy. At night I received news that the wind was ahead, and the vessel
had not sailed. I was exceedingly anxious about Fanny, and Peter too, who
was running a tremendous risk at my instigation. Next day the wind and
weather remained the same. Poor Fanny had been half dead with fright when
they carried her on board, and I could readily imagine how she must be
suffering now. Grandmother came often to my den, to say how thankful she
was I did not go. On the third morning she rapped for me to come down to
the storeroom. The poor old sufferer was breaking down under her weight of
trouble. She was easily flurried now. I found her in a nervous, excited
state, but I was not aware that she had forgotten to lock the door behind
her, as usual. She was exceedingly worried about the detention of the
vessel. She was afraid all would be discovered, and then Fanny, and Peter,
and I, would all be tortured to death, and Phillip would be utterly ruined,
and her house would be torn down. Poor Peter! If he should die such a
horrible death as the poor slave James had lately done, and all for his
kindness in trying to help me, how dreadful it would be for us all! Alas,
the thought was familiar to me, and had sent many a sharp pang through my
heart. I tried to suppress my own anxiety, and speak soothingly to her. She
brought in some allusion to aunt Nancy, the dear daughter she had recently
buried, and then she lost all control of herself. As she stood there,
trembling and sobbing, a voice from the piazza called out, "Whar is you,
aunt Marthy?" Grandmother was startled, and in her agitation opened the
door, without thinking of me. In stepped Jenny, the mischievous housemaid,
who had tried to enter my room, when I was concealed in the house of my
white benefactress. "I's bin huntin ebery whar for you, aunt Marthy," said
she. "My missis wants you to send her some crackers." I had slunk down
behind a barrel, which entirely screened me, but I imagined that Jenny was
looking directly at the spot, and my heart beat violently. My grandmother
immediately thought what she had done, and went out quickly with Jenny to
count the crackers locking the door after her. She returned to me, in a few
minutes, the perfect picture of despair. "Poor child!" she exclaimed, "my
carelessness has ruined you. The boat ain't gone yet. Get ready
immediately, and go with Fanny. I ain't got another word to say against it
now; for there's no telling what may happen this day."

Uncle Phillip was sent for, and he agreed with his mother in thinking that
Jenny would inform Dr. Flint in less than twenty-four hours. He advised
getting me on board the boat, if possible; if not, I had better keep very
still in my den, where they could not find me without tearing the house
down. He said it would not do for him to move in the matter, because
suspicion would be immediately excited; but he promised to communicate with
Peter. I felt reluctant to apply to him again, having implicated him too
much already; but there seemed to be no alternative. Vexed as Peter had
been by my indecision, he was true to his generous nature, and said at once
that he would do his best to help me, trusting I should show myself a
stronger woman this time.

He immediately proceeded to the wharf, and found that the wind had shifted,
and the vessel was slowly beating down stream. On some pretext of urgent
necessity, he offered two boatmen a dollar apiece to catch up with her. He
was of lighter complexion than the boatmen he hired, and when the captain
saw them coming so rapidly, he thought officers were pursuing his vessel in
search of the runaway slave he had on board. They hoisted sails, but the
boat gained upon them, and the indefatigable Peter sprang on board.

The captain at once recognized him. Peter asked him to go below, to speak
about a bad bill he had given him. When he told his errand, the captain
replied, "Why, the woman's here already; and I've put her where you or the
devil would have a tough job to find her."

"But it is another woman I want to bring," said Peter. "_She_ is in great
distress, too, and you shall be paid any thing within reason, if you'll
stop and take her."

"What's her name?" inquired the captain. "Linda," he replied.

"That's the name of the woman already here," rejoined the captain. "By
George! I believe you mean to betray me."

"O!" exclaimed Peter, "God knows I wouldn't harm a hair of your head. I am
too grateful to you. But there really _is_ another woman in great danger.
Do have the humanity to stop and take her!"

After a while they came to an understanding. Fanny, not dreaming I was any
where about in that region, had assumed my name, though she called herself
Johnson. "Linda is a common name," said Peter, "and the woman I want to
bring is Linda Brent."

The captain agreed to wait at a certain place till evening, being
handsomely paid for his detention.

Of course, the day was an anxious one for us all. But we concluded that if
Jenny had seen me, she would be too wise to let her mistress know of it;
and that she probably would not get a chance to see Dr. Flint's family till
evening, for I knew very well what were the rules in that household. I
afterwards believed that she did not see me; for nothing ever came of it,
and she was one of those base characters that would have jumped to betray a
suffering fellow being for the sake of thirty pieces of silver.

I made all my arrangements to go on board as soon as it was dusk. The
intervening time I resolved to spend with my son. I had not spoken to him
for seven years, though I had been under the same roof, and seen him every
day, when I was well enough to sit at the loophole. I did not dare to
venture beyond the storeroom; so they brought him there, and locked us up
together, in a place concealed from the piazza door. It was an agitating
interview for both of us. After we had talked and wept together for a
little while, he said, "Mother, I'm glad you're going away. I wish I could
go with you. I knew you was here; and I have been _so_ afraid they would
come and catch you!" I was greatly surprised, and asked him how he had
found it out.

He replied, "I was standing under the eaves, one day, before Ellen went
away, and I heard somebody cough up over the wood shed. I don't know what
made me think it was you, but I did think so. I missed Ellen, the night
before she went away; and grandmother brought her back into the room in the
night; and I thought maybe she'd been to see _you_, before she went, for I
heard grandmother whisper to her, 'Now go to sleep; and remember never to
tell.'"

I asked him if he ever mentioned his suspicions to his sister. He said he
never did; but after he heard the cough, if he saw her playing with other
children on that side of the house, he always tried to coax her round to
the other side, for fear they would hear me cough, too. He said he had kept
a close lookout for Dr. Flint, and if he saw him speak to a constable, or a
patrol, he always told grandmother. I now recollected that I had seen him
manifest uneasiness, when people were on that side of the house, and I had
at the time been puzzled to conjecture a motive for his actions. Such
prudence may seem extraordinary in a boy of twelve years, but slaves, being
surrounded by mysteries, deceptions, and dangers, early learn to be
suspicious and watchful, and prematurely cautious and cunning. He had never
asked a question of grandmother, or uncle Phillip, and I had often heard
him chime in with other children, when they spoke of my being at the north.

I told him I was now really going to the Free States, and if he was a good,
honest boy, and a loving child to his dear old grandmother, the Lord would
bless him, and bring him to me, and we and Ellen would live together. He
began to tell me that grandmother had not eaten any thing all day. While he
was speaking, the door was unlocked, and she came in with a small bag of
money, which she wanted me to take. I begged her to keep a part of it, at
least, to pay for Benny's being sent to the north; but she insisted, while
her tears were falling fast, that I should take the whole. "You may be sick
among strangers," she said, "and they would send you to the poorhouse to
die." Ah, that good grandmother!

For the last time I went up to my nook. Its desolate appearance no longer
chilled me, for the light of hope had risen in my soul. Yet, even with the
blessed prospect of freedom before me, I felt very sad at leaving forever
that old homestead, where I had been sheltered so long by the dear old
grandmother; where I had dreamed my first young dream of love; and where,
after that had faded away, my children came to twine themselves so closely
round my desolate heart. As the hour approached for me to leave, I again
descended to the storeroom. My grandmother and Benny were there. She took
me by the hand, and said, "Linda, let us pray." We knelt down together,
with my child pressed to my heart, and my other arm round the faithful,
loving old friend I was about to leave forever. On no other occasion has it
ever been my lot to listen to so fervent a supplication for mercy and
protection. It thrilled through my heart, and inspired me with trust in
God.

Peter was waiting for me in the street. I was soon by his side, faint in
body, but strong of purpose. I did not look back upon the old place, though
I felt that I should never see it again.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Linda has now lived in the crawlspace for seven years, and her mobility is seriously starting to suffer. Linda tells the story of her friend Fanny, who ran away from the auction-block months ago. She has been staying in her mother Aggie's hut. Aggie's hut is owned by Aunt Martha, and is on her land, so Linda and Fanny are both in hiding pretty close to one another. One day, Linda's friend Peter tells her that there's a hiding place in a boat with her name on it. Linda is afraid to leave her son Benny behind where Dr. Flint can get him. But eventually she agrees to go. And then, a fugitive slave is brutally murdered, and Aunt Martha freaks out. She begs Linda not to run away. Linda agrees. She tells Peter to take Fanny, instead. The next day, Aunt Martha has just let Linda into the storeroom to stretch her legs, when a black maid named Jenny walks in. Linda quickly hides, but she's convinced that Jenny has seen her and is going to rat her out. She asks Peter if the offer still stands. It does. Before Linda leaves, she meets with Benny and tells him that she loves him.


prompt:
Chapter: I never could tell how we reached the wharf. My brain was all of a whirl,
and my limbs tottered under me. At an appointed place we met my uncle
Phillip, who had started before us on a different route, that he might
reach the wharf first, and give us timely warning if there was any danger.
A row-boat was in readiness. As I was about to step in, I felt something
pull me gently, and turning round I saw Benny, looking pale and anxious. He
whispered in my ear, "I've been peeping into the doctor's window, and he's
at home. Good by, mother. Don't cry; I'll come." He hastened away. I
clasped the hand of my good uncle, to whom I owed so much, and of Peter,
the brave, generous friend who had volunteered to run such terrible risks
to secure my safety. To this day I remember how his bright face beamed with
joy, when he told me he had discovered a safe method for me to escape. Yet
that intelligent, enterprising, noble-hearted man was a chattel! Liable, by
the laws of a country that calls itself civilized, to be sold with horses
and pigs! We parted in silence. Our hearts were all too full for words!

Swiftly the boat glided over the water. After a while, one of the sailors
said, "Don't be down-hearted, madam. We will take you safely to your
husband, in ----." At first I could not imagine what he meant; but I had
presence of mind to think that it probably referred to something the
captain had told him; so I thanked him, and said I hoped we should have
pleasant weather.

When I entered the vessel the captain came forward to meet me. He was an
elderly man, with a pleasant countenance. He showed me to a little box of a
cabin, where sat my friend Fanny. She started as if she had seen a spectre.
She gazed on me in utter astonishment, and exclaimed, "Linda, can this be
_you_? or is it your ghost?" When we were locked in each other's arms, my
overwrought feelings could no longer be restrained. My sobs reached the
ears of the captain, who came and very kindly reminded us, that for his
safety, as well as our own, it would be prudent for us not to attract any
attention. He said that when there was a sail in sight he wished us to keep
below; but at other times, he had no objection to our being on deck. He
assured us that he would keep a good lookout, and if we acted prudently, he
thought we should be in no danger. He had represented us as women going to
meet our husbands in ----. We thanked him, and promised to observe
carefully all the directions he gave us.

Fanny and I now talked by ourselves, low and quietly, in our little cabin.
She told me of the suffering she had gone through in making her escape, and
of her terrors while she was concealed in her mother's house. Above all,
she dwelt on the agony of separation from all her children on that dreadful
auction day. She could scarcely credit me, when I told her of the place
where I had passed nearly seven years. "We have the same sorrows," said I.
"No," replied she, "you are going to see your children soon, and there is
no hope that I shall ever even hear from mine."

The vessel was soon under way, but we made slow progress. The wind was
against us, I should not have cared for this, if we had been out of sight
of the town; but until there were miles of water between us and our
enemies, we were filled with constant apprehensions that the constables
would come on board. Neither could I feel quite at ease with the captain
and his men. I was an entire stranger to that class of people, and I had
heard that sailors were rough, and sometimes cruel. We were so completely
in their power, that if they were bad men, our situation would be dreadful.
Now that the captain was paid for our passage, might he not be tempted to
make more money by giving us up to those who claimed us as property? I was
naturally of a confiding disposition, but slavery had made me suspicious of
every body. Fanny did not share my distrust of the captain or his men. She
said she was afraid at first, but she had been on board three days while
the vessel lay in the dock, and nobody had betrayed her, or treated her
otherwise than kindly.

The captain soon came to advise us to go on deck for fresh air. His
friendly and respectful manner, combined with Fanny's testimony, reassured
me, and we went with him. He placed us in a comfortable seat, and
occasionally entered into conversation. He told us he was a Southerner by
birth, and had spent the greater part of his life in the Slave States, and
that he had recently lost a brother who traded in slaves. "But," said he,
"it is a pitiable and degrading business, and I always felt ashamed to
acknowledge my brother in connection with it." As we passed Snaky Swamp, he
pointed to it, and said, "There is a slave territory that defies all the
laws." I thought of the terrible days I had spent there, and though it was
not called Dismal Swamp, it made me feel very dismal as I looked at it.

I shall never forget that night. The balmy air of spring was so refreshing!
And how shall I describe my sensations when we were fairly sailing on
Chesapeake Bay? O, the beautiful sunshine! the exhilarating breeze! And I
could enjoy them without fear or restraint. I had never realized what grand
things air and sunlight are till I had been deprived of them.

Ten days after we left land we were approaching Philadelphia. The captain
said we should arrive there in the night, but he thought we had better wait
till morning, and go on shore in broad daylight, as the best way to avoid
suspicion.

I replied, "You know best. But will you stay on board and protect us?"

He saw that I was suspicious, and he said he was sorry, now that he had
brought us to the end of our voyage, to find I had so little confidence in
him. Ah, if he had ever been a slave he would have known how difficult it
was to trust a white man. He assured us that we might sleep through the
night without fear; that he would take care we were not left unprotected.
Be it said to the honor of this captain, Southerner as he was, that if
Fanny and I had been white ladies, and our passage lawfully engaged, he
could not have treated us more respectfully. My intelligent friend, Peter,
had rightly estimated the character of the man to whose honor he had
intrusted us. The next morning I was on deck as soon as the day dawned. I
called Fanny to see the sun rise, for the first time in our lives, on free
soil; for such I _then_ believed it to be. We watched the reddening sky,
and saw the great orb come up slowly out of the water, as it seemed. Soon
the waves began to sparkle, and every thing caught the beautiful glow.
Before us lay the city of strangers. We looked at each other, and the eyes
of both were moistened with tears. We had escaped from slavery, and we
supposed ourselves to be safe from the hunters. But we were alone in the
world, and we had left dear ties behind us; ties cruelly sundered by the
demon Slavery.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Linda makes it to the boat. The captain turns out to be a kind southerner who opposes slavery, but Linda--understandably--has a hard time trusting him. Ten days after boarding the boat, they approach Philadelphia. Together, Linda and Fanny watch the sunrise on free soil. Their eyes are moist with tears. We're feeling a little sniffly ourselves.


prompt:
Chapter: I had heard that the poor slave had many friends at the north. I trusted we
should find some of them. Meantime, we would take it for granted that all
were friends, till they proved to the contrary. I sought out the kind
captain, thanked him for his attentions, and told him I should never cease
to be grateful for the service he had rendered us. I gave him a message to
the friends I had left at home, and he promised to deliver it. We were
placed in a row-boat, and in about fifteen minutes were landed on a wood
wharf in Philadelphia. As I stood looking round, the friendly captain
touched me on the shoulder, and said, "There is a respectable-looking
colored man behind you. I will speak to him about the New York trains, and
tell him you wish to go directly on." I thanked him, and asked him to
direct me to some shops where I could buy gloves and veils. He did so, and
said he would talk with the colored man till I returned. I made what haste
I could. Constant exercise on board the vessel, and frequent rubbing with
salt water, had nearly restored the use of my limbs. The noise of the great
city confused me, but I found the shops, and bought some double veils and
gloves for Fanny and myself. The shopman told me they were so many levies.
I had never heard the word before, but I did not tell him so. I thought if
he knew I was a stranger he might ask me where I came from. I gave him a
gold piece, and when he returned the change, I counted it, and found out
how much a levy was. I made my way back to the wharf, where the captain
introduced me to the colored man, as the Rev. Jeremiah Durham, minister of
Bethel church. He took me by the hand, as if I had been an old friend. He
told us we were too late for the morning cars to New York, and must wait
until the evening, or the next morning. He invited me to go home with him,
assuring me that his wife would give me a cordial welcome; and for my
friend he would provide a home with one of his neighbors. I thanked him for
so much kindness to strangers, and told him if I must be detained, I should
like to hunt up some people who formerly went from our part of the country.
Mr. Durham insisted that I should dine with him, and then he would assist
me in finding my friends. The sailors came to bid us good by. I shook their
hardy hands, with tears in my eyes. They had all been kind to us, and they
had rendered us a greater service than they could possibly conceive of.

I had never seen so large a city, or been in contact with so many people in
the streets. It seemed as if those who passed looked at us with an
expression of curiosity. My face was so blistered and peeled, by sitting on
deck, in wind and sunshine, that I thought they could not easily decide to
what nation I belonged.

Mrs. Durham met me with a kindly welcome, without asking any questions. I
was tired, and her friendly manner was a sweet refreshment. God bless her!
I was sure that she had comforted other weary hearts, before I received her
sympathy. She was surrounded by her husband and children, in a home made
sacred by protecting laws. I thought of my own children, and sighed.

After dinner Mr. Durham went with me in quest of the friends I had spoken
of. They went from my native town, and I anticipated much pleasure in
looking on familiar faces. They were not at home, and we retracted our
steps through streets delightfully clean. On the way, Mr. Durham observed
that I had spoken to him of a daughter I expected to meet; that he was
surprised, for I looked so young he had taken me for a single woman. He was
approaching a subject on which I was extremely sensitive. He would ask
about my husband next, I thought, and if I answered him truly, what would
he think of me? I told him I had two children, one in New York the other at
the south. He asked some further questions, and I frankly told him some of
the most important events of my life. It was painful for me to do it; but I
would not deceive him. If he was desirous of being my friend, I thought he
ought to know how far I was worthy of it. "Excuse me, if I have tried your
feelings," said he. "I did not question you from idle curiosity. I wanted
to understand your situation, in order to know whether I could be of any
service to you, or your little girl. Your straight-forward answers do you
credit; but don't answer every body so openly. It might give some heartless
people a pretext for treating you with contempt."

That word _contempt_ burned me like coals of fire. I replied, "God alone
knows how I have suffered; and He, I trust, will forgive me. If I am
permitted to have my children, I intend to be a good mother, and to live in
such a manner that people cannot treat me with contempt."

"I respect your sentiments," said he. "Place your trust in God, and be
governed by good principles, and you will not fail to find friends."

When we reached home, I went to my room, glad to shut out the world for a
while. The words he had spoken made an indelible impression upon me. They
brought up great shadows from the mournful past. In the midst of my
meditations I was startled by a knock at the door. Mrs. Durham entered, her
face all beaming with kindness, to say that there was an anti-slavery
friend down stairs, who would like to see me. I overcame my dread of
encountering strangers, and went with her. Many questions were asked
concerning my experiences, and my escape from slavery; but I observed how
careful they all were not to say any thing that might wound my feelings.
How gratifying this was, can be fully understood only by those who have
been accustomed to be treated as if they were not included within the pale
of human beings. The anti-slavery friend had come to inquire into my plans,
and to offer assistance, if needed. Fanny was comfortably established, for
the present, with a friend of Mr. Durham. The Anti-Slavery Society agreed
to pay her expenses to New York. The same was offered to me, but I declined
to accept it, telling them that my grandmother had given me sufficient to
pay my expenses to the end of my journey. We were urged to remain in
Philadelphia a few days, until some suitable escort could be found for us.
I gladly accepted the proposition, for I had a dread of meeting
slaveholders, and some dread also of railroads. I had never entered a
railroad car in my life, and it seemed to me quite an important event.

That night I sought my pillow with feelings I had never carried to it
before. I verily believed myself to be a free woman. I was wakeful for a
long time, and I had no sooner fallen asleep, than I was roused by
fire-bells. I jumped up, and hurried on my clothes. Where I came from,
every body hastened to dress themselves on such occasions. The white people
thought a great fire might be used as a good opportunity for insurrection,
and that it was best to be in readiness; and the colored people were
ordered out to labor in extinguishing the flames. There was but one engine
in our town, and colored women and children were often required to drag it
to the river's edge and fill it. Mrs. Durham's daughter slept in the same
room with me, and seeing that she slept through all the din, I thought it
was my duty to wake her. "What's the matter?" said she, rubbing her eyes.

"They're screaming fire in the streets, and the bells are ringing," I
replied.

"What of that?" said she, drowsily. "We are used to it. We never get up,
without the fire is very near. What good would it do?"

I was quite surprised that it was not necessary for us to go and help fill
the engine. I was an ignorant child, just beginning to learn how things
went on in great cities.

At daylight, I heard women crying fresh fish, berries, radishes, and
various other things. All this was new to me. I dressed myself at an early
hour, and sat at the window to watch that unknown tide of life.
Philadelphia seemed to me a wonderfully great place. At the breakfast
table, my idea of going out to drag the engine was laughed over, and I
joined in the mirth.

I went to see Fanny, and found her so well contented among her new friends
that she was in no haste to leave. I was also very happy with my kind
hostess. She had had advantages for education, and was vastly my superior.
Every day, almost every hour, I was adding to my little stock of knowledge.
She took me out to see the city as much as she deemed prudent. One day she
took me to an artist's room, and showed me the portraits of some of her
children. I had never seen any paintings of colored people before, and they
seemed to be beautiful.

At the end of five days, one of Mrs. Durham's friends offered to accompany
us to New York the following morning. As I held the hand of my good hostess
in a parting clasp, I longed to know whether her husband had repeated to
her what I had told him. I supposed he had, but she never made any allusion
to it. I presume it was the delicate silence of womanly sympathy.

When Mr. Durham handed us our tickets, he said, "I am afraid you will have
a disagreeable ride; but I could not procure tickets for the first-class
cars."

Supposing I had not given him money enough, I offered more. "O, no," said
he, "they could not be had for any money. They don't allow colored people
to go in the first-class cars."

This was the first chill to my enthusiasm about the Free States. Colored
people were allowed to ride in a filthy box, behind white people, at the
south, but there they were not required to pay for the privilege. It made
me sad to find how the north aped the customs of slavery.

We were stowed away in a large, rough car, with windows on each side, too
high for us to look out without standing up. It was crowded with people,
apparently of all nations. There were plenty of beds and cradles,
containing screaming and kicking babies. Every other man had a cigar or
pipe in his mouth, and jugs of whiskey were handed round freely. The fumes
of the whiskey and the dense tobacco smoke were sickening to my senses, and
my mind was equally nauseated by the coarse jokes and ribald songs around
me. It was a very disagreeable ride. Since that time there has been some
improvement in these matters.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: When they reach Philadelphia, Linda meets a black man named Rev. Jeremiah Durham, a local minister. He offers Fanny and Linda places to stay for the night, while they wait for a morning car to New York. Linda stays with the Durhams, who are both kind to her, and ask her stories about her life in slavery. She tells them everything--and we mean everything. Mr. Durham says that maybe she shouldn't be quite so open, especially about all the sex. This new city life is blowing Linda's mind. Fire engines, street vendors, portraits of black children--it's crazy. One of their abolitionist friends offers to pay Linda's way to New York. She refuses, since she has money from Aunt Martha. Instead, they pay Fanny's way. The women stay in Philadelphia for a few days, until one of Mrs. Durham's friends offers to accompany them to New York. Here comes Linda's first experience of northern prejudice: they can ride the train, all right, but they can't ride in first-class. It's coach for them.


prompt:
Chapter: When we arrived in New York, I was half crazed by the crowd of coachmen
calling out, "Carriage, ma'am?" We bargained with one to take us to
Sullivan Street for twelve shillings. A burly Irishman stepped up and said,
"I'll tak' ye for sax shillings." The reduction of half the price was an
object to us, and we asked if he could take us right away. "Troth an I
will, ladies," he replied. I noticed that the hackmen smiled at each other,
and I inquired whether his conveyance was decent. "Yes, it's dacent it is,
marm. Devil a bit would I be after takin' ladies in a cab that was not
dacent." We gave him our checks. He went for the baggage, and soon
reappeared, saying, "This way, if you plase, ladies." We followed, and
found our trunks on a truck, and we were invited to take our seats on them.
We told him that was not what we bargained for, and he must take the trunks
off. He swore they should not be touched till we had paid him six
shillings. In our situation it was not prudent to attract attention, and I
was about to pay him what he required, when a man near by shook his head
for me not to do it. After a great ado we got rid of the Irishman, and had
our trunks fastened on a hack. We had been recommended to a boarding-house
in Sullivan Street, and thither we drove. There Fanny and I separated. The
Anti-Slavery Society provided a home for her, and I afterwards heard of her
in prosperous circumstances. I sent for an old friend from my part of the
country, who had for some time been doing business in New York. He came
immediately. I told him I wanted to go to my daughter, and asked him to aid
me in procuring an interview.

I cautioned him not to let it be known to the family that I had just
arrived from the south, because they supposed I had been at the north seven
years. He told me there was a colored woman in Brooklyn who came from the
same town I did, and I had better go to her house, and have my daughter
meet me there. I accepted the proposition thankfully, and he agreed to
escort me to Brooklyn. We crossed Fulton ferry, went up Myrtle Avenue, and
stopped at the house he designated. I was just about to enter, when two
girls passed. My friend called my attention to them. I turned, and
recognized in the eldest, Sarah, the daughter of a woman who used to live
with my grandmother, but who had left the south years ago. Surprised and
rejoiced at this unexpected meeting, I threw my arms round her, and
inquired concerning her mother.

"You take no notice of the other girl," said my friend. I turned, and there
stood my Ellen! I pressed her to my heart, then held her away from me to
take a look at her. She had changed a good deal in the two years since I
parted from her. Signs of neglect could be discerned by eyes less observing
than a mother's. My friend invited us all to go into the house; but Ellen
said she had been sent of an errand, which she would do as quickly as
possible, and go home and ask Mrs. Hobbs to let her come and see me. It was
agreed that I should send for her the next day. Her companion, Sarah,
hastened to tell her mother of my arrival. When I entered the house, I
found the mistress of it absent, and I waited for her return. Before I saw
her, I heard her saying, "Where is Linda Brent? I used to know her father
and mother." Soon Sarah came with her mother. So there was quite a company
of us, all from my grandmother's neighborhood. These friends gathered round
me and questioned me eagerly. They laughed, they cried, and they shouted.
They thanked God that I had got away from my persecutors and was safe on
Long Island. It was a day of great excitement. How different from the
silent days I had passed in my dreary den!

The next morning was Sunday. My first waking thoughts were occupied with
the note I was to send to Mrs. Hobbs, the lady with whom Ellen lived. That
I had recently come into that vicinity was evident; otherwise I should have
sooner inquired for my daughter. It would not do to let them know I had
just arrived from the south, for that would involve the suspicion of my
having been harbored there, and might bring trouble, if not ruin, on
several people.

I like a straightforward course, and am always reluctant to resort to
subterfuges. So far as my ways have been crooked, I charge them all upon
slavery. It was that system of violence and wrong which now left me no
alternative but to enact a falsehood. I began my note by stating that I had
recently arrived from Canada, and was very desirous to have my daughter
come to see me. She came and brought a message from Mrs. Hobbs, inviting me
to her house, and assuring me that I need not have any fears. The
conversation I had with my child did not leave my mind at ease. When I
asked if she was well treated, she answered yes; but there was no
heartiness in the tone, and it seemed to me that she said it from an
unwillingness to have me troubled on her account. Before she left me, she
asked very earnestly, "Mother, will you take me to live with you?" It made
me sad to think that I could not give her a home till I went to work and
earned the means; and that might take me a long time. When she was placed
with Mrs. Hobbs, the agreement was that she should be sent to school She
had been there two years, and was now nine years old, and she scarcely knew
her letters. There was no excuse for this, for there were good public
schools in Brooklyn, to which she could have been sent without expense.

She staid with me till dark, and I went home with her. I was received in a
friendly manner by the family, and all agreed in saying that Ellen was a
useful, good girl. Mrs. Hobbs looked me coolly in the face, and said, "I
suppose you know that my cousin, Mr. Sands, has _given_ her to my eldest
daughter. She will make a nice waiting-maid for her when she grows up." I
did not answer a word. How _could_ she, who knew by experience the strength
of a mother's love, and who was perfectly aware of the relation Mr. Sands
bore to my children,--how _could_ she look me in the face, while she thrust
such a dagger into my heart?

I was no longer surprised that they had kept her in such a state of
ignorance. Mr. Hobbs had formerly been wealthy, but he had failed, and
afterwards obtained a subordinate situation in the Custom House. Perhaps
they expected to return to the south some day; and Ellen's knowledge was
quite sufficient for a slave's condition. I was impatient to go to work and
earn money, that I might change the uncertain position of my children. Mr.
Sands had not kept his promise to emancipate them. I had also been deceived
about Ellen. What security had I with regard to Benjamin? I felt that I had
none.

I returned to my friend's house in an uneasy state of mind. In order to
protect my children, it was necessary that I should own myself. I called
myself free, and sometimes felt so; but I knew I was insecure. I sat down
that night and wrote a civil letter to Dr. Flint, asking him to state the
lowest terms on which he would sell me; and as I belonged by law to his
daughter, I wrote to her also, making a similar request.

Since my arrival at the north I had not been unmindful of my dear brother
William. I had made diligent inquiries for him, and having heard of him in
Boston, I went thither. When I arrived there, I found he had gone to New
Bedford. I wrote to that place, and was informed he had gone on a whaling
voyage, and would not return for some months. I went back to New York to
get employment near Ellen. I received an answer from Dr. Flint, which gave
me no encouragement. He advised me to return and submit myself to my
rightful owners, and then any request I might make would be granted. I lent
this letter to a friend, who lost it; otherwise I would present a copy to
my readers.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Fanny and Linda arrive in New York and go their separate ways--Fanny to the Anti-Slavery Society and Linda to friends. One day, she runs into her daughter Ellen on the street. Linda sends a note to Mrs. Hobbs, the cousin of Mr. Sands who now keeps Ellen. Linda is allowed to visit, and she learns that Ellen has not been put in school yet, even though Mr. Sands insisted she be educated. Mrs. Hobbs tells Linda that Ellen will make a great waiting-maid for her daughter. She seems to have no intention of educating Ellen and really emphasizes that Mr. Sands "gave" her Ellen--as in, gave like a slave. Linda freaks out just a little and writes to Dr. Flint and to his daughter, to see if he will sell her. Unsurprisingly, he refuses.


prompt:
Chapter: My greatest anxiety now was to obtain employment. My health was greatly
improved, though my limbs continued to trouble me with swelling whenever I
walked much. The greatest difficulty in my way was, that those who employed
strangers required a recommendation; and in my peculiar position, I could,
          of course, obtain no certificates from the families I had so faithfully
          served.

          One day an acquaintance told me of a lady who wanted a nurse for her babe,
          and I immediately applied for the situation. The lady told me she preferred
          to have one who had been a mother, and accustomed to the care of infants. I
          told her I had nursed two babes of my own. She asked me many questions,
          but, to my great relief, did not require a recommendation from my former
          employers. She told me she was an English woman, and that was a pleasant
          circumstance to me, because I had heard they had less prejudice against
          color than Americans entertained. It was agreed that we should try each
          other for a week. The trial proved satisfactory to both parties, and I was
          engaged for a month.

          The heavenly Father had been most merciful to me in leading me to this
          place. Mrs. Bruce was a kind and gentle lady, and proved a true and
          sympathizing friend. Before the stipulated month expired, the necessity of
          passing up and down stairs frequently, caused my limbs to swell so
          painfully, that I became unable to perform my duties. Many ladies would
          have thoughtlessly discharged me; but Mrs. Bruce made arrangements to save
          me steps, and employed a physician to attend upon me. I had not yet told
          her that I was a fugitive slave. She noticed that I was often sad, and
          kindly inquired the cause. I spoke of being separated from my children, and
          from relatives who were dear to me; but I did not mention the constant
          feeling of insecurity which oppressed my spirits. I longed for some one to
          confide it; but I had been so deceived by white people, that I had lost all
          confidence in them. If they spoke kind words to me, I thought it was for
          some selfish purpose. I had entered this family with the distrustful
          feelings I had brought with me out of slavery; but ere six months had
          passed, I found that the gentle deportment of Mrs. Bruce and the smiles of
          her lovely babe were thawing my chilled heart. My narrow mind also began to
          expand under the influences of her intelligent conversation, and the
          opportunities for reading, which were gladly allowed me whenever I had
          leisure from my duties. I gradually became more energetic and more
          cheerful.

          The old feeling of insecurity, especially with regard to my children, often
          threw its dark shadow across my sunshine. Mrs. Bruce offered me a home for
          Ellen; but pleasant as it would have been, I did not dare to accept it, for
          fear of offending the Hobbs family. Their knowledge of my precarious
          situation placed me in their power; and I felt that it was important for me
          to keep on the right side of them, till, by dint of labor and economy, I
          could make a home for my children. I was far from feeling satisfied with
          Ellen's situation. She was not well cared for. She sometimes came to New
          York to visit me; but she generally brought a request from Mrs. Hobbs that
          I would buy her a pair of shoes, or some article of clothing. This was
          accompanied by a promise of payment when Mr. Hobbs's salary at the Custom
          House became due; but some how or other the pay-day never came. Thus many
          dollars of my earnings were expended to keep my child comfortably clothed.
          That, however, was a slight trouble, compared with the fear that their
          pecuniary embarrassments might induce them to sell my precious young
          daughter. I knew they were in constant communication with Southerners, and
          had frequent opportunities to do it. I have stated that when Dr. Flint put
          Ellen in jail, at two years old, she had an inflammation of the eyes,
          occasioned by measles. This disease still troubled her; and kind Mrs. Bruce
          proposed that she should come to New York for a while, to be under the care
          of Dr. Elliott, a well known oculist. It did not occur to me that there was
          any thing improper in a mother's making such a request; but Mrs. Hobbs was
          very angry, and refused to let her go. Situated as I was, it was not
          politic to insist upon it. I made no complaint, but I longed to be entirely
          free to act a mother's part towards my children. The next time I went over
          to Brooklyn, Mrs. Hobbs, as if to apologize for her anger, told me she had
          employed her own physician to attend to Ellen's eyes, and that she had
          refused my request because she did not consider it safe to trust her in New
          York. I accepted the explanation in silence; but she had told me that my
          child _belonged_ to her daughter, and I suspected that her real motive was
          a fear of my conveying her property away from her. Perhaps I did her
          injustice; but my knowledge of Southerners made it difficult for me to feel
          otherwise.

          Sweet and bitter were mixed in the cup of my life, and I was thankful that
          it had ceased to be entirely bitter. I loved Mrs. Bruce's babe. When it
          laughed and crowed in my face, and twined its little tender arms
          confidingly about my neck, it made me think of the time when Benny and
          Ellen were babies, and my wounded heart was soothed. One bright morning, as
          I stood at the window, tossing baby in my arms, my attention was attracted
          by a young man in sailor's dress, who was closely observing every house as
          he passed. I looked at him earnestly. Could it be my brother William? It
          _must_ be he--and yet, how changed! I placed the baby safely, flew down
          stairs, opened the front door, beckoned to the sailor, and in less than a
          minute I was clasped in my brother's arms. How much we had to tell each
          other! How we laughed, and how we cried, over each other's adventures! I
          took him to Brooklyn, and again saw him with Ellen, the dear child whom he
          had loved and tended so carefully, while I was shut up in my miserable den.
          He staid in New York a week. His old feelings of affection for me and Ellen
          were as lively as ever. There are no bonds so strong as those which are
          formed by suffering together.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Linda becomes a nursemaid for an English woman named Mrs. Bruce. When Linda's limbs become swollen from walking up and down the stairs taking care of the baby, Mrs. Bruce gets her a doctor and lightens her work load. Since the Hobbses are not clothing Ellen, Linda uses her wages to buy Ellen clothes. Mrs. Bruce is a really nice lady, and Linda is almost happy. She loves Mrs. Bruce's little baby, because it reminds her of her own little ones. One day, looking out the window, Linda sees a handsome young sailor out the window. It's totally her brother! She runs downstairs, and they hug and laugh and cry.


prompt:
Chapter: My young mistress, Miss Emily Flint, did not return any answer to my letter
requesting her to consent to my being sold. But after a while, I received a
reply, which purported to be written by her younger brother. In order
rightly to enjoy the contents of this letter, the reader must bear in mind
that the Flint family supposed I had been at the north many years. They had
no idea that I knew of the doctor's three excursions to New York in search
of me; that I had heard his voice, when he came to borrow five hundred
dollars for that purpose; and that I had seen him pass on his way to the
steamboat. Neither were they aware that all the particulars of aunt Nancy's
death and burial were conveyed to me at the time they occurred. I have kept
the letter, of which I herewith subjoin a copy:--

   Your letter to sister was received a few days ago. I gather from
   it that you are desirous of returning to your native place, among
   your friends and relatives. We were all gratified with the
   contents of your letter; and let me assure you that if any
   members of the family have had any feeling of resentment towards
   you, they feel it no longer. We all sympathize with you in your
   unfortunate condition, and are ready to do all in our power to
   make you contented and happy. It is difficult for you to return
   home as a free person. If you were purchased by your grandmother,
   it is doubtful whether you would be permitted to remain, although
   it would be lawful for you to do so. If a servant should be
   allowed to purchase herself, after absenting herself so long from
   her owners, and return free, it would have an injurious effect.
   From your letter, I think your situation must be hard and
   uncomfortable. Come home. You have it in your power to be
   reinstated in our affections. We would receive you with open arms
   and tears of joy. You need not apprehend any unkind treatment, as
   we have not put ourselves to any trouble or expense to get you.
   Had we done so, perhaps we should feel otherwise. You know my
   sister was always attached to you, and that you were never
   treated as a slave. You were never put to hard work, nor exposed
   to field labor. On the contrary, you were taken into the house,
   and treated as one of us, and almost as free; and we, at least,
   felt that you were above disgracing yourself by running away.
   Believing you may be induced to come home voluntarily has induced
   me to write for my sister. The family will be rejoiced to see
   you; and your poor old grandmother expressed a great desire to
   have you come, when she heard your letter read. In her old age
   she needs the consolation of having her children round her.
   Doubtless you have heard of the death of your aunt. She was a
   faithful servant, and a faithful member of the Episcopal church.
   In her Christian life she taught us how to live--and, O, too high
   the price of knowledge, she taught us how to die! Could you have
   seen us round her death bed, with her mother, all mingling our
   tears in one common stream, you would have thought the same
   heartfelt tie existed between a master and his servant, as
   between a mother and her child. But this subject is too painful
   to dwell upon. I must bring my letter to a close. If you are
   contented to stay away from your old grandmother, your child, and
   the friends who love you, stay where you are. We shall never
   trouble ourselves to apprehend you. But should you prefer to come
   home, we will do all that we can to make you happy. If you do not
   wish to remain in the family, I know that father, by our
   persuasion, will be induced to let you be purchased by any person
   you may choose in our community. You will please answer this as
   soon as possible, and let us know your decision. Sister sends
   much love to you. In the mean time believe me your sincere friend
   and well wisher.

This letter was signed by Emily's brother, who was as yet a mere lad. I
knew, by the style, that it was not written by a person of his age, and
though the writing was disguised, I had been made too unhappy by it, in
former years, not to recognize at once the hand of Dr. Flint. O, the
hypocrisy of slaveholders! Did the old fox suppose I was goose enough to go
into such a trap? Verily, he relied too much on "the stupidity of the
African race." I did not return the family of Flints any thanks for their
cordial invitation--a remissness for which I was, no doubt, charged with
base ingratitude.

Not long afterwards I received a letter from one of my friends at the
south, informing me that Dr. Flint was about to visit the north. The letter
had been delayed, and I supposed he might be already on the way. Mrs. Bruce
did not know I was a fugitive. I told her that important business called me
to Boston, where my brother then was, and asked permission to bring a
friend to supply my place as nurse, for a fortnight. I started on my
journey immediately; and as soon as I arrived, I wrote to my grandmother
that if Benny came, he must be sent to Boston. I knew she was only waiting
for a good chance to send him north, and, fortunately, she had the legal
power to do so, without asking leave of any body. She was a free woman; and
when my children were purchased, Mr. Sands preferred to have the bill of
sale drawn up in her name. It was conjectured that he advanced the money,
but it was not known. At the south, a gentleman may have a shoal of colored
children without any disgrace; but if he is known to purchase them, with
the view of setting them free, the example is thought to be dangerous to
their "peculiar institution," and he becomes unpopular.

There was a good opportunity to send Benny in a vessel coming directly to
New York. He was put on board with a letter to a friend, who was requested
to see him off to Boston. Early one morning, there was a loud rap at my
door, and in rushed Benjamin, all out of breath. "O mother!" he exclaimed,
"here I am! I run all the way; and I come all alone. How d'you do?"

O reader, can you imagine my joy? No, you cannot, unless you have been a
slave mother. Benjamin rattled away as fast as his tongue could go.
"Mother, why don't you bring Ellen here? I went over to Brooklyn to see
her, and she felt very bad when I bid her good by. She said, 'O Ben, I wish
I was going too.' I thought she'd know ever so much; but she don't know so
much as I do; for I can read, and she can't. And, mother, I lost all my
clothes coming. What can I do to get some more? I 'spose free boys can get
along here at the north as well as white boys."

I did not like to tell the sanguine, happy little fellow how much he was
mistaken. I took him to a tailor, and procured a change of clothes. The
rest of the day was spent in mutual asking and answering of questions, with
the wish constantly repeated that the good old grandmother was with us, and
frequent injunctions from Benny to write to her immediately, and be sure to
tell her every thing about his voyage, and his journey to Boston.

Dr. Flint made his visit to New York, and made every exertion to call upon
me, and invite me to return with him, but not being able to ascertain where
I was, his hospitable intentions were frustrated, and the affectionate
family, who were waiting for me with "open arms," were doomed to
disappointment.

As soon as I knew he was safely at home, I placed Benjamin in the care of
my brother William, and returned to Mrs. Bruce. There I remained through
the winter and spring, endeavoring to perform my duties faithfully, and
finding a good degree of happiness in the attractions of baby Mary, the
considerate kindness of her excellent mother, and occasional interviews
with my darling daughter.

But when summer came, the old feeling of insecurity haunted me. It was
necessary for me to take little Mary out daily, for exercise and fresh air,
and the city was swarming with Southerners, some of whom might recognize
me. Hot weather brings out snakes and slaveholders, and I like one class of
the venomous creatures as little as I do the other. What a comfort it is,
to be free to _say_ so!

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Dr. Flint writes Linda a letter, posing as his young son, asking Linda to come back home and pretending to be all loving and kind. Linda obviously doesn't respond. When she learns that Dr. Flint is coming to New York again to find her, she tells Mrs. Bruce she has to go to Boston on business. She stays there for a month, While she's there, her son Benny has managed to find his way North. He visits, and he's full of excited plans for making it as a "free boy." She doesn't spoil his happiness, even though she's already figured out that the North isn't exactly a land of paradise. Finally, Dr. Flint leaves and she can go back to New York. She sends Benny to live with William, and spends a pretty nice winter and spring knowing that, for now, her family is safe.


prompt:
Chapter: It was a relief to my mind to see preparations for leaving the city. We
went to Albany in the steamboat Knickerbocker. When the gong sounded for
tea, Mrs. Bruce said, "Linda, it is late, and you and baby had better come
to the table with me." I replied, "I know it is time baby had her supper,
but I had rather not go with you, if you please. I am afraid of being
insulted." "O no, not if you are with _me_," she said. I saw several white
nurses go with their ladies, and I ventured to do the same. We were at the
extreme end of the table. I was no sooner seated, than a gruff voice said,
"Get up! You know you are not allowed to sit here." I looked up, and, to my
astonishment and indignation, saw that the speaker was a colored man. If
his office required him to enforce the by-laws of the boat, he might, at
least, have done it politely. I replied, "I shall not get up, unless the
captain comes and takes me up." No cup of tea was offered me, but Mrs.
Bruce handed me hers and called for another. I looked to see whether the
other nurses were treated in a similar manner. They were all properly
waited on.

Next morning, when we stopped at Troy for breakfast, every body was making
a rush for the table. Mrs. Bruce said, "Take my arm, Linda, and we'll go in
together." The landlord heard her, and said, "Madam, will you allow your
nurse and baby to take breakfast with my family?" I knew this was to be
attributed to my complexion; but he spoke courteously, and therefore I did
not mind it.

At Saratoga we found the United States Hotel crowded, and Mr. Bruce took
one of the cottages belonging to the hotel. I had thought, with gladness,
of going to the quiet of the country, where I should meet few people, but
here I found myself in the midst of a swarm of Southerners. I looked round
me with fear and trembling, dreading to see some one who would recognize
me. I was rejoiced to find that we were to stay but a short time.

We soon returned to New York, to make arrangements for spending the
remainder of the summer at Rockaway. While the laundress was putting the
clothes in order, I took an opportunity to go over to Brooklyn to see
Ellen. I met her going to a grocery store, and the first words she said,
were, "O, mother, don't go to Mrs. Hobbs's. Her brother, Mr. Thorne, has
come from the south, and may be he'll tell where you are." I accepted the
warning. I told her I was going away with Mrs. Bruce the next day, and
would try to see her when I came back.

Being in servitude to the Anglo-Saxon race, I was not put into a "Jim Crow
car," on our way to Rockaway, neither was I invited to ride through the
streets on the top of trunks in a truck; but every where I found the same
manifestations of that cruel prejudice, which so discourages the feelings,
and represses the energies of the colored people. We reached Rockaway
before dark, and put up at the Pavilion--a large hotel, beautifully
situated by the sea-side--a great resort of the fashionable world. Thirty
or forty nurses were there, of a great variety of nations. Some of the
ladies had colored waiting-maids and coachmen, but I was the only nurse
tinged with the blood of Africa. When the tea bell rang, I took little Mary
and followed the other nurses. Supper was served in a long hall. A young
man, who had the ordering of things, took the circuit of the table two or
three times, and finally pointed me to a seat at the lower end of it. As
there was but one chair, I sat down and took the child in my lap. Whereupon
the young man came to me and said, in the blandest manner possible, "Will
you please to seat the little girl in the chair, and stand behind it and
feed her? After they have done, you will be shown to the kitchen, where you
will have a good supper."

This was the climax! I found it hard to preserve my self-control, when I
looked round, and saw women who were nurses, as I was, and only one shade
lighter in complexion, eyeing me with a defiant look, as if my presence
were a contamination. However, I said nothing. I quietly took the child in
my arms, went to our room, and refused to go to the table again. Mr. Bruce
ordered meals to be sent to the room for little Mary and I. This answered
for a few days; but the waiters of the establishment were white, and they
soon began to complain, saying they were not hired to wait on negroes. The
landlord requested Mr. Bruce to send me down to my meals, because his
servants rebelled against bringing them up, and the colored servants of
other boarders were dissatisfied because all were not treated alike.

My answer was that the colored servants ought to be dissatisfied with
_themselves_, for not having too much self-respect to submit to such
treatment; that there was no difference in the price of board for colored
and white servants, and there was no justification for difference of
treatment. I staid a month after this, and finding I was resolved to stand
up for my rights, they concluded to treat me well. Let every colored man
and woman do this, and eventually we shall cease to be trampled under foot
by our oppressors.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Linda and Mrs. Bruce go off on vacation, and Linda experiences plenty of ugly prejudice, even though she's working as a nurse for Mrs. Bruce's child. Like: The waiters won't give her tea when she's eating with Mrs. Bruce. She's not allowed to sit in a chair and hold the child on her lap, but has to place the child in the chair and stand behind her. The servants won't bring her dinner to her room when Mrs. Bruce asks them to, so she has to go down to the kitchen to get it herself. Finally, Linda puts her foot down and says that Mrs. Bruce is paying for her just like any of the white servants, so she'd better be treated like one of them. This actually works. See, Linda says, you've just got to stand up for your rights.


prompt:
Chapter: After we returned to New York, I took the earliest opportunity to go and
see Ellen. I asked to have her called down stairs; for I supposed Mrs.
Hobbs's southern brother might still be there, and I was desirous to avoid
seeing him, if possible. But Mrs. Hobbs came to the kitchen, and insisted
on my going up stairs. "My brother wants to see you," said she, "and he is
sorry you seem to shun him. He knows you are living in New York. He told me
to say to you that he owes thanks to good old aunt Martha for too many
little acts of kindness for him to be base enough to betray her
grandchild."

This Mr. Thorne had become poor and reckless long before he left the south,
and such persons had much rather go to one of the faithful old slaves to
borrow a dollar, or get a good dinner, than to go to one whom they consider
an equal. It was such acts of kindness as these for which he professed to
feel grateful to my grandmother. I wished he had kept at a distance, but as
he was here, and knew where I was, I concluded there was nothing to be
gained by trying to avoid him; on the contrary, it might be the means of
exciting his ill will. I followed his sister up stairs. He met me in a very
friendly manner, congratulated me on my escape from slavery, and hoped I
had a good place, where I felt happy.

I continued to visit Ellen as often as I could. She, good thoughtful child,
never forgot my hazardous situation, but always kept a vigilant lookout for
my safety. She never made any complaint about her own inconveniences and
troubles; but a mother's observing eye easily perceived that she was not
happy. On the occasion of one of my visits I found her unusually serious.
When I asked her what was the matter, she said nothing was the matter. But
I insisted upon knowing what made her look so very grave. Finally, I
ascertained that she felt troubled about the dissipation that was
continually going on in the house. She was sent to the store very often for
rum and brandy, and she felt ashamed to ask for it so often; and Mr. Hobbs
and Mr. Thorne drank a great deal, and their hands trembled so that they
had to call her to pour out the liquor for them. "But for all that," said
she, "Mr. Hobbs is good to me, and I can't help liking him. I feel sorry
for him." I tried to comfort her, by telling her that I had laid up a
hundred dollars, and that before long I hoped to be able to give her and
Benjamin a home, and send them to school. She was always desirous not to
add to my troubles more than she could help, and I did not discover till
years afterwards that Mr. Thorne's intemperance was not the only annoyance
she suffered from him. Though he professed too much gratitude to my
grandmother to injure any of her descendants, he had poured vile language
into the ears of her innocent great-grandchild.

I usually went to Brooklyn to spend Sunday afternoon. One Sunday, I found
Ellen anxiously waiting for me near the house. "O, mother," said she, "I've
been waiting for you this long time. I'm afraid Mr. Thorne has written to
tell Dr. Flint where you are. Make haste and come in. Mrs. Hobbs will tell
you all about it!"

The story was soon told. While the children were playing in the grape-vine
arbor, the day before, Mr. Thorne came out with a letter in his hand, which
he tore up and scattered about. Ellen was sweeping the yard at the time,
and having her mind full of suspicions of him, she picked up the pieces and
carried them to the children, saying, "I wonder who Mr. Thorne has been
writing to."

"I'm sure I don't know, and don't care," replied the oldest of the
children; "and I don't see how it concerns you."

"But it does concern me," replied Ellen; "for I'm afraid he's been
writing to the south about my mother."

They laughed at her, and called her a silly thing, but good-naturedly put
the fragments of writing together, in order to read them to her. They were
no sooner arranged, than the little girl exclaimed, "I declare, Ellen, I
believe you are right."

The contents of Mr. Thorne's letter, as nearly as I can remember, were as
follows: "I have seen your slave, Linda, and conversed with her. She can be
taken very easily, if you manage prudently. There are enough of us here to
swear to her identity as your property. I am a patriot, a lover of my
country, and I do this as an act of justice to the laws." He concluded by
informing the doctor of the street and number where I lived. The children
carried the pieces to Mrs. Hobbs, who immediately went to her brother's
room for an explanation. He was not to be found. The servants said they saw
him go out with a letter in his hand, and they supposed he had gone to the
post office. The natural inference was, that he had sent to Dr. Flint a
copy of those fragments. When he returned, his sister accused him of it,
and he did not deny the charge. He went immediately to his room, and the
next morning he was missing. He had gone over to New York, before any of
the family were astir.

It was evident that I had no time to lose; and I hastened back to the city
with a heavy heart. Again I was to be torn from a comfortable home, and all
my plans for the welfare of my children were to be frustrated by that demon
Slavery! I now regretted that I never told Mrs. Bruce my story. I had not
concealed it merely on account of being a fugitive; that would have made
her anxious, but it would have excited sympathy in her kind heart. I valued
her good opinion, and I was afraid of losing it, if I told her all the
particulars of my sad story. But now I felt that it was necessary for her
to know how I was situated. I had once left her abruptly, without
explaining the reason, and it would not be proper to do it again. I went
home resolved to tell her in the morning. But the sadness of my face
attracted her attention, and, in answer to her kind inquiries, I poured out
my full heart to her, before bed time. She listened with true womanly
sympathy, and told me she would do all she could to protect me. How my
heart blessed her!

Early the next morning, Judge Vanderpool and Lawyer Hopper were consulted.
They said I had better leave the city at once, as the risk would be great
if the case came to trial. Mrs. Bruce took me in a carriage to the house of
one of her friends, where she assured me I should be safe until my brother
could arrive, which would be in a few days. In the interval my thoughts
were much occupied with Ellen. She was mine by birth, and she was also mine
by Southern law, since my grandmother held the bill of sale that made her
so. I did not feel that she was safe unless I had her with me. Mrs. Hobbs,
who felt badly about her brother's treachery, yielded to my entreaties, on
condition that she should return in ten days. I avoided making any promise.
She came to me clad in very thin garments, all outgrown, and with a school
satchel on her arm, containing a few articles. It was late in October, and
I knew the child must suffer; and not daring to go out in the streets to
purchase any thing, I took off my own flannel skirt and converted it into
one for her. Kind Mrs. Bruce came to bid me good by, and when she saw that
I had taken off my clothing for my child, the tears came to her eyes. She
said, "Wait for me, Linda," and went out. She soon returned with a nice
warm shawl and hood for Ellen. Truly, of such souls as hers are the kingdom
of heaven.

My brother reached New York on Wednesday. Lawyer Hopper advised us to go to
Boston by the Stonington route, as there was less Southern travel in that
direction. Mrs. Bruce directed her servants to tell all inquirers that I
formerly lived there, but had gone from the city. We reached the steamboat
Rhode Island in safety. That boat employed colored hands, but I knew that
colored passengers were not admitted to the cabin. I was very desirous for
the seclusion of the cabin, not only on account of exposure to the night
air, but also to avoid observation. Lawyer Hopper was waiting on board for
us. He spoke to the stewardess, and asked, as a particular favor, that she
would treat us well. He said to me, "Go and speak to the captain yourself
by and by. Take your little girl with you, and I am sure that he will not
let her sleep on deck." With these kind words and a shake of the hand he
departed.

The boat was soon on her way, bearing me rapidly from the friendly home
where I had hoped to find security and rest. My brother had left me to
purchase the tickets, thinking that I might have better success than he
would. When the stewardess came to me, I paid what she asked, and she gave
me three tickets with clipped corners. In the most unsophisticated manner I
said, "You have made a mistake; I asked you for cabin tickets. I cannot
possibly consent to sleep on deck with my little daughter." She assured me
there was no mistake. She said on some of the routes colored people were
allowed to sleep in the cabin, but not on this route, which was much
travelled by the wealthy. I asked her to show me to the captain's office,
and she said she would after tea. When the time came, I took Ellen by the
hand and went to the captain, politely requesting him to change our
tickets, as we should be very uncomfortable on deck. He said it was
contrary to their custom, but he would see that we had berths below; he
would also try to obtain comfortable seats for us in the cars; of that he
was not certain, but he would speak to the conductor about it, when the
boat arrived. I thanked him, and returned to the ladies' cabin. He came
afterwards and told me that the conductor of the cars was on board, that he
had spoken to him, and he had promised to take care of us. I was very much
surprised at receiving so much kindness. I don't know whether the pleasing
face of my little girl had won his heart, or whether the stewardess
inferred from Lawyer Hopper's manner that I was a fugitive, and had pleaded
with him in my behalf.

When the boat arrived at Stonington, the conductor kept his promise, and
showed us to seats in the first car, nearest the engine. He asked us to
take seats next the door, but as he passed through, we ventured to move on
toward the other end of the car. No incivility was offered us, and we
reached Boston in safety.

The day after my arrival was one of the happiest of my life. I felt as if I
was beyond the reach of the bloodhounds; and, for the first time during
many years, I had both my children together with me. They greatly enjoyed
their reunion, and laughed and chatted merrily. I watched them with a
swelling heart. Their every motion delighted me.

I could not feel safe in New York, and I accepted the offer of a friend,
that we should share expenses and keep house together. I represented to
Mrs. Hobbs that Ellen must have some schooling, and must remain with me for
that purpose. She felt ashamed of being unable to read or spell at her age,
so instead of sending her to school with Benny, I instructed her myself
till she was fitted to enter an intermediate school. The winter passed
pleasantly, while I was busy with my needle, and my children with their
books.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Ellen finds out that Mrs. Hobbs's brother, Mr. Thorpe, has told Dr. Flint where Linda is living. Linda finally tells Mrs. Bruce that she is a fugitive slave, and that Dr. Flint will be coming after her. Mrs. Bruce contacts her lawyer, who arranges to take Linda, Ellen, and William to Boston. Ellen is only allowed to go because Mrs. Hobbs feels a little guilty that her brother is such a meanie. In Boston, Linda and Ellen reunite with Benny. Linda stays in Boston all winter, teaching Ellen to read and write. They have a few months of domestic happiness.


prompt:
Chapter: In the spring, sad news came to me. Mrs. Bruce was dead. Never again, in
this world, should I see her gentle face, or hear her sympathizing voice. I
had lost an excellent friend, and little Mary had lost a tender mother. Mr.
Bruce wished the child to visit some of her mother's relatives in England,
      and he was desirous that I should take charge of her. The little motherless
      one was accustomed to me, and attached to me, and I thought she would be
      happier in my care than in that of a stranger. I could also earn more in
      this way than I could by my needle. So I put Benny to a trade, and left
      Ellen to remain in the house with my friend and go to school.

      We sailed from New York, and arrived in Liverpool after a pleasant voyage
      of twelve days. We proceeded directly to London, and took lodgings at the
      Adelaide Hotel. The supper seemed to me less luxurious than those I had
      seen in American hotels; but my situation was indescribably more pleasant.
      For the first time in my life I was in a place where I was treated
      according to my deportment, without reference to my complexion. I felt as
      if a great millstone had been lifted from my breast. Ensconced in a
      pleasant room, with my dear little charge, I laid my head on my pillow, for
      the first time, with the delightful consciousness of pure, unadulterated
      freedom.

      As I had constant care of the child, I had little opportunity to see the
      wonders of that great city; but I watched the tide of life that flowed
      through the streets, and found it a strange contrast to the stagnation in
      our Southern towns. Mr. Bruce took his little daughter to spend some days
      with friends in Oxford Crescent, and of course it was necessary for me to
      accompany her. I had heard much of the systematic method of English
      education, and I was very desirous that my dear Mary should steer straight
      in the midst of so much propriety. I closely observed her little playmates
      and their nurses, being ready to take any lessons in the science of good
      management. The children were more rosy than American children, but I did
      not see that they differed materially in other respects. They were like all
      children--sometimes docile and sometimes wayward.

      We next went to Steventon, in Berkshire. It was a small town, said to be
      the poorest in the county. I saw men working in the fields for six
      shillings, and seven shillings, a week, and women for sixpence, and
      sevenpence, a day, out of which they boarded themselves. Of course they
      lived in the most primitive manner; it could not be otherwise, where a
      woman's wages for an entire day were not sufficient to buy a pound of meat.
      They paid very low rents, and their clothes were made of the cheapest
      fabrics, though much better than could have been procured in the United
      States for the same money. I had heard much about the oppression of the
      poor in Europe. The people I saw around me were, many of them, among the
      poorest poor. But when I visited them in their little thatched cottages, I
      felt that the condition of even the meanest and most ignorant among them
      was vastly superior to the condition of the most favored slaves in America.
      They labored hard; but they were not ordered out to toil while the stars
      were in the sky, and driven and slashed by an overseer, through heat and
      cold, till the stars shone out again. Their homes were very humble; but
      they were protected by law. No insolent patrols could come, in the dead of
      night, and flog them at their pleasure. The father, when he closed his
      cottage door, felt safe with his family around him. No master or overseer
      could come and take from him his wife, or his daughter. They must separate
      to earn their living; but the parents knew where their children were going,
      and could communicate with them by letters. The relations of husband and
      wife, parent and child, were too sacred for the richest noble in the land
      to violate with impunity. Much was being done to enlighten these poor
      people. Schools were established among them, and benevolent societies were
      active in efforts to ameliorate their condition. There was no law
      forbidding them to learn to read and write; and if they helped each other
      in spelling out the Bible, they were in no danger of thirty-nine lashes, as
      was the case with myself and poor, pious, old uncle Fred. I repeat that the
      most ignorant and the most destitute of these peasants was a thousand fold
      better off than the most pampered American slave.

      I do not deny that the poor are oppressed in Europe. I am not disposed to
      paint their condition so rose-colored as the Hon. Miss Murray paints the
      condition of the slaves in the United States. A small portion of _my_
      experience would enable her to read her own pages with anointed eyes. If
      she were to lay aside her title, and, instead of visiting among the
      fashionable, become domesticated, as a poor governess, on some plantation
      in Louisiana or Alabama, she would see and hear things that would make her
      tell quite a different story.

      My visit to England is a memorable event in my life, from the fact of my
      having there received strong religious impressions. The contemptuous manner
      in which the communion had been administered to colored people, in my
      native place; the church membership of Dr. Flint, and others like him; and
      the buying and selling of slaves, by professed ministers of the gospel, had
      given me a prejudice against the Episcopal church. The whole service seemed
      to me a mockery and a sham. But my home in Steventon was in the family of a
      clergyman, who was a true disciple of Jesus. The beauty of his daily life
      inspired me with faith in the genuineness of Christian professions. Grace
      entered my heart, and I knelt at the communion table, I trust, in true
      humility of soul.

      I remained abroad ten months, which was much longer than I had anticipated.
      During all that time, I never saw the slightest symptom of prejudice
      against color. Indeed, I entirely forgot it, till the time came for us to
      return to America.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Mrs. Bruce dies. This is really sad for Linda, and a little nerve-wracking for us. What's Linda going to do now? Luckily, Mr. Bruce keeps her on as a nurse for little Mary. They all travel to England, so Mary can be with her relatives. Linda notices that the English poor are oppressed, but they're still better off than American slaves. They've got homes, access to education, and legal protection. Linda stays in England for ten months and never encounters racial prejudice.


prompt:
Chapter: We had a tedious winter passage, and from the distance spectres seemed to
rise up on the shores of the United States. It is a sad feeling to be
afraid of one's native country. We arrived in New York safely, and I
hastened to Boston to look after my children. I found Ellen well, and
improving at her school; but Benny was not there to welcome me. He had been
left at a good place to learn a trade, and for several months every thing
worked well. He was liked by the master, and was a favorite with his
fellow-apprentices; but one day they accidentally discovered a fact they
had never before suspected--that he was colored! This at once transformed
him into a different being. Some of the apprentices were Americans, others
American-born Irish; and it was offensive to their dignity to have a
"nigger" among them, after they had been told that he _was_ a "nigger."
They began by treating him with silent scorn, and finding that he returned
the same, they resorted to insults and abuse. He was too spirited a boy to
stand that, and he went off. Being desirous to do something to support
himself, and having no one to advise him, he shipped for a whaling voyage.
When I received these tidings I shed many tears, and bitterly reproached
myself for having left him so long. But I had done it for the best, and now
all I could do was to pray to the heavenly Father to guide and protect him.

Not long after my return, I received the following letter from Miss Emily
Flint, now Mrs. Dodge:--

   In this you will recognize the hand of your friend and mistress.
   Having heard that you had gone with a family to Europe, I have
   waited to hear of your return to write to you. I should have
   answered the letter you wrote to me long since, but as I could
   not then act independently of my father, I knew there could be
   nothing done satisfactory to you. There were persons here who
   were willing to buy you and run the risk of getting you. To this
   I would not consent. I have always been attached to you, and
   would not like to see you the slave of another, or have unkind
   treatment. I am married now, and can protect you. My husband
   expects to move to Virginia this spring, where we think of
   settling. I am very anxious that you should come and live with
   me. If you are not willing to come, you may purchase yourself;
   but I should prefer having you live with me. If you come, you
   may, if you like, spend a month with your grandmother and
   friends, then come to me in Norfolk, Virginia. Think this over,
   and write as soon as possible, and let me know the conclusion.
   Hoping that your children are well, I remain your friend and
   mistress.

Of course I did not write to return thanks for this cordial invitation. I
felt insulted to be thought stupid enough to be caught by such professions.

   "Come up into my parlor," said the spider to the fly;
   "Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy."

It was plain that Dr. Flint's family were apprised of my movements, since
they knew of my voyage to Europe. I expected to have further trouble from
them; but having eluded them thus far, I hoped to be as successful in
future. The money I had earned, I was desirous to devote to the education
of my children, and to secure a home for them. It seemed not only hard, but
unjust, to pay for myself. I could not possibly regard myself as a piece of
property. Moreover, I had worked many years without wages, and during that
time had been obliged to depend on my grandmother for many comforts in food
and clothing. My children certainly belonged to me; but though Dr. Flint
had incurred no expense for their support, he had received a large sum of
money for them. I knew the law would decide that I was his property, and
would probably still give his daughter a claim to my children; but I
regarded such laws as the regulations of robbers, who had no rights that I
was bound to respect.

The Fugitive Slave Law had not then passed. The judges of Massachusetts had
not then stooped under chains to enter her courts of justice, so called. I
knew my old master was rather skittish of Massachusetts. I relied on her
love of freedom, and felt safe on her soil. I am now aware that I honored
the old Commonwealth beyond her deserts.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Dr. Flint's recently married daughter writes Linda, asking her to come back to the South. Or, if Linda would rather, she can buy herself. As long as she just comes back. Linda doesn't respond because she's not stupid enough to fall for that trick, and even if she could buy herself free, it's totally ridiculous that she would have to spend her hard-earned money on that rather than paying for her children's education and future.


prompt:
Chapter: 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."

I said, "But, my child, I want you to know about your father."

"I know all about it, mother," she replied; "I am nothing to my father, and
he is nothing to me. All my love is for you. I was with him five months in
Washington, and he never cared for me. He never spoke to me as he did to
his little Fanny. I knew all the time he was my father, for Fanny's nurse
told me so, but she said I must never tell any body, and I never did. I
used to wish he would take me in his arms and kiss me, as he did Fanny; or
that he would sometimes smile at me, as he did at her. I thought if he was
my own father, he ought to love me. I was a little girl then, and didn't
know any better. But now I never think any thing about my father. All my
love is for you." She hugged me closer as she spoke, and I thanked God that
the knowledge I had so much dreaded to impart had not diminished the
affection of my child. I had not the slightest idea she knew that portion
of my history. If I had, I should have spoken to her long before; for my
pent-up feelings had often longed to pour themselves out to some one I
could trust. But I loved the dear girl better for the delicacy she had
manifested towards her unfortunate mother.

The next morning, she and her uncle started on their journey to the village
in New York, where she was to be placed at school. It seemed as if all the
sunshine had gone away. My little room was dreadfully lonely. I was
thankful when a message came from a lady, accustomed to employ me,
requesting me to come and sew in her family for several weeks. On my
return, I found a letter from brother William. He thought of opening an
anti-slavery reading room in Rochester, and combining with it the sale of
some books and stationery; and he wanted me to unite with him. We tried it,
but it was not successful. We found warm anti-slavery friends there, but
the feeling was not general enough to support such an establishment. I
passed nearly a year in the family of Isaac and Amy Post, practical
believers in the Christian doctrine of human brotherhood. They measure a
man's worth by his character, not by his complexion. The memory of those
beloved and honored friends will remain with me to my latest hour.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: One day, Linda tries to tell Ellen who her father is. Actually, Ellen already knows all about it. Mr. Sands's white daughter Fanny had a nurse who told her years ago. William sends Ellen off to a boarding school in a New York village. Linda lives with Isaac and Amy Post, Quaker abolitionists, for a year. She treasures her time with them.