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is stranger than fiction;" and whoever reads the narrative of Alfrado, will find the assertion verified.

About eight years ago I became acquainted with the author of this book, and I feel it a privilege to speak a few words in her behalf. Through the instrumentality of an itinerant colored lecturer, she was brought to W, Mass. This is an ancient town, where the mothers and daughters seek, not "wool and flax," but straw,—working willingly with their hands! Here she was introduced to the family of Mrs. Walker, who kindly consented to receive her as an inmate of her household, and immediately succeeded in procuring work for her as a "straw sewer." Being very ingenious, she soon acquired the art of making hats; but on account of former hard treatment, her constitution was greatly impaired, and she was subject to seasons of sickness. On this account Mrs. W. gave her a room joining her own chamber, where she could hear her faintest call. Never shall I forget the expression of her "black, but comely" face, as she came to me one day, exclaiming, "O, aunt J, I have at last found a home,—and not only a home, but a mother. My cup runneth over. What shall I render to the Lord for all his benefits?"

Months passed on, and she was happy—truly happy. Her health began to improve under the genial sunshine in which she lived, and she even looked forward with hope—joyful hope to the future. But, alas, "it is not in man that