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.

 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.

