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THE GARIES

AND

THEIR FRIENDS

Frank J. Webb

1857

Preface by Harriet Beecher Stowe




TO THE

LADY NOEL BYRON

THIS BOOK

IS, BY HER KIND PERMISSION,

MOST AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED,

WITH PROFOUND RESPECT,

BY HER GRATEFUL FRIEND,

THE AUTHOR.



PREFACE.


The book which now appears before the public may be of interest in relation
to a question which the late agitation of the subject of slavery has raised
in many thoughtful minds; viz.--Are the race at present held as slaves
capable of freedom, self-government, and progress?

The author is a  young man, born and reared in the city of
Philadelphia.

This city, standing as it does on the frontier between free and slave
territory, has accumulated naturally a large population of the mixed and
African race.

Being one of the nearest free cities of any considerable size to the slave
territory, it has naturally been a resort of escaping fugitives, or of
emancipated slaves.

In this city they form a large class--have increased in numbers, wealth,
and standing--they constitute a peculiar society of their own, presenting
many social peculiarities worthy of interest and attention.

The representations of their positions as to wealth and education are
reliable, the incidents related are mostly true ones, woven together by a
slight web of fiction.

The scenes of the mob describe incidents of a peculiar stage of
excitement, which existed in the city of Philadelphia years ago, when the
first agitation of the slavery question developed an intense form of
opposition to the free <DW52> people.

Southern influence at that time stimulated scenes of mob violence in
several Northern cities where the discussion was attempted. By prompt,
undaunted resistance, however, this spirit was subdued, and the right of
free inquiry established; so that discussion of the question, so far from
being dangerous in Free States, is now begun to be allowed in the Slave
States; and there are some subjects the mere discussion of which is a
half-victory.

The author takes pleasure in recommending this simple and truthfully-told
story to the attention and interest of the friends of progress and humanity
in England.

(Signed) H.B. Stowe.

ANDOVER, U.S.,

_August_ 17, 1857.



FROM LORD BROUGHAM.

I have been requested by one who has long known the deep interest I have
ever taken in the cause of Freedom, and in the elevation of the <DW52>
race, to supply a few lines of introduction to Mr. Webb's book.

It was the intention of Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe to introduce this work
to the British public, but I am truly sorry to learn that a severe domestic
affliction, since her return to America, has postponed the fulfilment of
her promise.

I am, however, able to state her opinion of the book, expressed in a letter
to one of her friends.

She says:--"There are points in the book of which I think very highly. The
style is simple and unambitious--the characters, most of them faithfully
drawn from real life, are quite fresh, and the incident, which is also much
of it fact, is often deeply interesting.

"I shall do what I can with the preface. I would not do as much unless I
thought the book of worth _in itself_. It shows what I long have wanted to
show; what the _free people of colour do attain_, and what they can do in
spite of all social obstacles."

I hope and trust that Mr. Webb's book will meet with all the success to
which its own merit, and the great interest of the subject, so well entitle
it. On this, Mrs. Stowe's authority is naturally of the greatest weight;
and I can only lament that this prefatory notice does not come accompanied
with her further remarks and illustrations.

4, Grafton-street, _July_ 29, 1857.

       *       *       *       *       *

Note.--Since the above was written, the preface by Mrs. Stowe has been
received. It was deemed best, however, to still retain the introduction so
kindly given by Lord Brougham, whose deep interest in the freedom and
welfare of the African race none feel more grateful for than does the
author of the following pages.




CONTENTS


1.--In which the Reader is introduced to a Family of Peculiar
Construction

2.--A Glance at the Ellis Family

3.--Charlie's Trials

4.--In which Mr. Winston finds an Old Friend

5.--The Garies decide on a Change

6.--Pleasant News

7.--Mrs. Thomas has her Troubles

8.--Trouble in the Ellis Family

9.--Breaking up

10.--Another Parting

11.--The New Home

12.--Mr. Garie's Neighbour

13.--Hopes consummated

14.--Charlie at Warmouth

15.--Mrs. Stevens gains a Triumph

16.--Mr. Stevens makes a Discovery

17.--Plotting

18.--Mr. Stevens falls into Bad Hands

19.--The Alarm

20.--The Attack

21.--More Horrors

22.--An Anxious Day

23.--The Lost One Found

24.--Charlie distinguishes himself

25.--The Heir

26.--Home again

27.--Sudbury

28.--Charlie seeks Employment

29.--Clouds and Sunshine

30.--Many Years after

31.--The Thorn rankles

32.--Dear Old Ess again

33.--The Fatal Discovery

34.--"Murder will out"

35.--The Wedding

36.--And the Last




CHAPTER I.

In which the Reader is introduced to a Family of peculiar Construction.


It was at the close of an afternoon in May, that a party might have been
seen gathered around a table covered with all those delicacies that, in the
household of a rich Southern planter, are regarded as almost necessaries of
life. In the centre stood a dish of ripe strawberries, their plump red
sides peeping through the covering of white sugar that had been plentifully
sprinkled over them. Geeche limes, almost drowned in their own rich syrup,
temptingly displayed their bronze- forms just above the rim of the
glass that contained them. Opposite, and as if to divert the gaze from
lingering too long over their luscious beauty, was a dish of peaches
preserved in brandy, a never-failing article in a Southern matron's
catalogues of sweets. A silver basket filled with a variety of cakes was in
close proximity to a plate of corn-flappers, which were piled upon it like
a mountain, and from the brown tops of which trickled tiny rivulets of
butter. All these dainties, mingling their various odours with the aroma of
the tea and fine old java that came steaming forth from the richly chased
silver pots, could not fail to produce a very appetising effect.

There was nothing about Mr. Garie, the gentleman who sat at the head of the
table, to attract more than ordinary attention. He had the ease of manner
usual with persons whose education and associations have been of a highly
refined character, and his countenance, on the whole, was pleasing, and
indicative of habitual good temper.

Opposite to him, and presiding at the tea-tray, sat a lady of marked
beauty. The first thing that would have attracted attention on seeing her
were her gloriously dark eyes. They were not entirely black, but of that
seemingly changeful hue so often met with in persons of African extraction,
which deepens and lightens with every varying emotion. Hers wore a subdued
expression that sank into the heart and at once riveted those who saw her.
Her hair, of jetty black, was arranged in braids; and through her
light-brown complexion the faintest tinge of carmine was visible. As she
turned to take her little girl from the arms of the servant, she displayed
a fine profile and perfectly moulded form. No wonder that ten years before,
when she was placed upon the auction-block at Savanah, she had brought so
high a price. Mr. Garie had paid two thousand dollars for her, and was the
envy of all the young bucks in the neighbourhood who had competed with him
at the sale. Captivated by her beauty, he had esteemed himself fortunate in
becoming her purchaser; and as time developed the goodness of her heart,
and her mind enlarged through the instructions he assiduously gave her, he
found the connection that might have been productive of many evils, had
proved a boon to both; for whilst the astonishing progress she made in her
education proved her worthy of the pains he took to instruct her, she
returned threefold the tenderness and affection he lavished upon her.

The little girl in her arms, and the boy at her side, showed no trace
whatever of African origin. The girl had the chestnut hair and blue eyes of
her father; but the boy had inherited the black hair and dark eyes of his
mother. The critically learned in such matters, knowing his parentage,
might have imagined they could detect the evidence of his mother's race, by
the slightly mezzo-tinto expression of his eyes, and the rather African
fulness of his lips; but the casual observer would have passed him by
without dreaming that a drop of <DW64> blood coursed through his veins. His
face was expressive of much intelligence, and he now seemed to listen with
an earnest interest to the conversation that was going on between his
father and a dark-complexioned gentleman who sat beside him.

"And so you say, Winston, that they never suspected you were ?"

"I don't think they had the remotest idea of such a thing. At least, if
they did, they must have conquered their prejudices most effectually, for
they treated me with the most distinguished consideration. Old Mr. Priestly
was like a father to me; and as for his daughter Clara and her aunt, they
were politeness embodied. The old gentleman was so much immersed in
business, that he was unable to bestow much attention upon me; so he turned
me over to Miss Clara to be shown the lions. We went to the opera, the
theatre, to museums, concerts, and I can't tell where all. The Sunday
before I left I accompanied her to church, and after service, as we were
coming out, she introduced me to Miss Van Cote and her mamma. Mrs. Van Cote
was kind enough to invite me to her grand ball."

"And did you go?" interrupted Mr. Garie.

"Of course, I did--and what is more, as old Mr. Priestly has given up
balls, he begged me to escort Clara and her aunt."

"Well, Winston, that is too rich," exclaimed Mr. Garie, slapping his hand
on the table, and laughing till he was red in the face; "too good, by Jove!
Oh! I can't keep that. I must write to them, and say I forgot to mention in
my note of introduction that you were a <DW52> gentleman. The old man
will swear till everything turns blue; and as for Clara, what will become
of her? A Fifth-avenue belle escorted to church and to balls by a <DW52>
gentleman!" Here Mr. Garie indulged in another burst of laughter so
side-shaking and merry, that the contagion spread even to the little girl
in Mrs. Garie's arms, who almost choked herself with the tea her mother was
giving her, and who had to be hustled and shaken for some time before she
could be brought round again.

"It will be a great triumph for me," said Mr. Garie. "The old man prides
himself on being able to detect evidences of the least drop of African
blood in any one; and makes long speeches about the natural antipathy of
the Anglo-Saxon to anything with a drop of <DW64> blood in its veins. Oh, I
shall write him a glorious letter expressing my pleasure at his great
change of sentiment, and my admiration of the fearless manner in which he
displays his contempt for public opinion. How he will stare! I fancy I see
him now, with his hair almost on end with disgust. It will do him good: it
will convince him, I hope, that a man can be a gentleman even though he has
African blood in his veins. I have had a series of quarrels with him,"
continued Mr. Garie; "I think he had his eye on me for Miss Clara, and that
makes him particularly fierce about my present connection. He rather
presumes on his former great intimacy with my father, and undertakes to
lecture me occasionally when opportunity is afforded. He was greatly
scandalized at my speaking of Emily as my wife; and seemed to think me
cracked because I talked of endeavouring to procure a governess for my
children, or of sending them abroad to be educated. He has a holy horror of
everything approaching to amalgamation; and of all the men I ever met,
cherishes the most unchristian prejudice against <DW52> people. He says,
the existence of "a gentleman" with African blood in his veins, is a moral
and physical impossibility, and that by no exertion can anything be made of
that description of people. He is connected with a society for the
deportation of free <DW52> people, and thinks they ought to be all sent
to Africa, unless they are willing to become the property of some good
master."

"Oh, yes; it is quite a hobby of his," here interposed Mr. Winston. "He
makes lengthy speeches on the subject, and has published two of them in
pamphlet form. Have you seen them?"

"Yes, he sent them to me. I tried to get through one of them, but it was
too heavy, I had to give it up. Besides, I had no patience with them; they
abounded in mis-statements respecting the free <DW52> people. Why even
here in the slave states--in the cities of Savanah and Charleston--they are
much better situated than he describes them to be in New York; and since
they can and do prosper here, where they have such tremendous difficulties
to encounter, I know they cannot be in the condition he paints, in a state
where they are relieved from many of the oppressions they labour under
here. And, on questioning him on the subject, I found he was entirely
unacquainted with <DW52> people; profoundly ignorant as to the real facts
of their case. He had never been within a  church or school; did
not even know that they had a literary society amongst them. Positively, I,
living down here in Georgia, knew more about the character and condition of
the <DW52> people of the Northern States, than he who lived right in the
midst of them. Would you believe that beyond their laundress and a drunken
<DW64> that they occasionally employed to do odd jobs for them, they were
actually unacquainted with any <DW52> people: and how unjust was it for
him to form his opinion respecting a class numbering over twenty thousand
in his own state, from the two individuals I have mentioned and the <DW64>
loafers he occasionally saw in the streets."

"It is truly unfortunate," rejoined Mr. Winston, "for he covers his
prejudices with such a pretended regard for the <DW52> people, that a
person would be the more readily led to believe his statements respecting
them to be correct; and he is really so positive about it, and apparently
go deaf to all argument that I did not discuss the subject with him to any
extent; he was so very kind to me that I did not want to run a tilt against
his favourite opinions."

"You wrote me he gave you letters to Philadelphia; was there one amongst
them to the Mortons?"

"Yes. They were very civil and invited me to a grand dinner they gave to
the Belgian Charge d'Affaires. I also met there one or two scions of the
first families of Virginia. The Belgian minister did not seem to be aware
that slavery is a tabooed subject in polite circles, and he was continually
bringing it forward until slaves, slavery, and black people in general
became the principal topic of conversation, relieved by occasional
discussion upon some new book or pictures, and remarks in praise of the
viands before us. A very amusing thing occurred during dinner. A
bright-faced little <DW52> boy who was assisting at the table, seemed to
take uncommon interest in the conversation. An animated discussion had
arisen as to the antiquity of the use of salad, one party maintaining that
one of the oldest of the English poets had mentioned it in a poem, and the
other as stoutly denying it. At last a reverend gentleman, whose remarks
respecting the intelligence of the children of Ham had been particularly
disparaging, asserted that nowhere in Chaucer, Spencer, nor any of the old
English poets could anything relating to it be found. At this, the little
waiter became so excited that he could no longer contain himself, and,
despite the frowns and nods of our hostess, exclaimed, 'Yes it can, it's in
Chaucer; here,' he continued, taking out a book from the book-case, 'here
is the very volume,'[*] and turning over the leaves he pointed out the
passage, to the great chagrin of the reverend gentleman, and to the
amusement of the guests. The Belgian minister enjoyed it immensely. 'Ah,'
said he, 'the child of Ham know more than the child of Shem, dis time.'
Whereupon Mrs. Morton rejoined that in this case it was not so wonderful,
owing to the frequent and intimate relations into which ham and salad were
brought, and with this joke the subject was dismissed. I can't say I was
particularly sorry when the company broke up."

[Footnote * See Chaucer, "Flower and the Leaf."]

"Oh, George, never mind the white people," here interposed Mrs. Garie.
"Never mind them; tell us about the  folks; they are the ones I
take the most interest in. We were so delighted with your letters, and so
glad that you found Mrs. Ellis. Tell us all about that."

"Oh, 'tis a long story, Em, and can't be told in a minute; it would take
the whole evening to relate it all."

"Look at the children, my dear, they are half asleep," said Mr. Garie.
"Call nurse and see them safe into bed, and when you come back we will have
the whole story."

"Very well;" replied she, rising and calling the nurse. "Now remember,
George, you are not to begin until I return, for I should be quite vexed to
lose a word."

"Oh, go on with the children, my dear, I'll guarantee he shall not say a
word on the subject till you come back."

With this assurance Mrs. Garie left the room, playfully shaking her finger
at them as she went out, exclaiming, "Not a word, remember now, not a
word."

After she left them Mr. Garie remarked, "I have not seen Em as happy as she
is this afternoon for some time. I don't know what has come over her
lately; she scarcely ever smiles now, and yet she used to be the most
cheerful creature in the world. I wish I knew what is the matter with her;
sometimes I am quite distressed about her. She goes about the house looking
so lost and gloomy, and does not seem to take the least interest in
anything. You saw," continued he, "how silent she has been all tea time,
and yet she has been more interested in what you have been saying than in
anything that has transpired for months. Well, I suppose women will be so
sometimes," he concluded, applying himself to the warm cakes that had just
been set upon the table.

"Perhaps she is not well," suggested Mr. Winston, "I think she looks a
little pale."

"Well, possibly you may be right, but I trust it is only a temporary
lowness of spirits or something of that kind. Maybe she will get over it in
a day or two;" and with this remark the conversation dropped, and the
gentlemen proceeded to the demolition of the sweetmeats before them. And
now, my reader, whilst they are finishing their meal, I will relate to you
who Mr. Winston is, and how he came to be so familiarly seated at Mr.
Garie's table.

Mr. Winston had been a slave. Yes! that fine-looking gentleman seated near
Mr. Garie and losing nothing by the comparison that their proximity would
suggest, had been fifteen years before sold on the auction-block in the
neighbouring town of Savanah--had been made to jump, show his teeth, shout
to test his lungs, and had been handled and examined by professed <DW64>
traders and amateur buyers, with less gentleness and commiseration than
every humane man would feel for a horse or an ox. Now do not doubt me--I
mean that very gentleman, whose polished manners and irreproachable
appearance might have led you to suppose him descended from a long line of
illustrious ancestors. Yes--he was the offspring of a mulatto field-hand by
her master. He who was now clothed in fine linen, had once rejoiced in a
tow shirt that scarcely covered his nakedness, and had sustained life on a
peck of corn a week, receiving the while kicks and curses from a tyrannical
overseer.

The death of his master had brought him to the auction-block, from which,
both he and his mother were sold to separate owners. There they took their
last embrace of each other--the mother tearless, but heart-broken--the boy
with all the wildest manifestations of grief.

His purchaser was a cotton broker from New Orleans, a warm-hearted, kind
old man, who took a fancy to the boy's looks, and pitied him for his
unfortunate separation from his mother. After paying for his new purchase,
he drew him aside, and said, in a kind tone, "Come, my little man, stop
crying; my boys never cry. If you behave yourself you shall have fine times
with me. Stop crying now, and come with me; I am going to buy you a new
suit of clothes."

"I don't want new clothes--I want my mammy," exclaimed the child, with a
fresh burst of grief.

"Oh dear me!" said the fussy old gentleman, "why can't you stop--I don't
want to hear you cry. Here," continued he, fumbling in his pocket--"here's
a picayune."

"Will that buy mother back?" said the child brightening up.

"No, no, my little man, not quite--I wish it would. I'd purchase the old
woman; but I can't--I'm not able to spare the money."

"Then I don't want it," cried the boy, throwing the money on the ground.
"If it won't buy mammy, I don't want it. I want my mammy, and nothing
else."

At length, by much kind language, and by the prospect of many fabulous
events to occur hereafter, invented at the moment by the old gentleman, the
boy was coaxed into a more quiescent state, and trudged along in the rear
of Mr. Moyese--that was the name of his purchaser--to be fitted with the
new suit of clothes.

The next morning they started by the stage for Augusta. George, seated on
the box with the driver, found much to amuse him; and the driver's merry
chat and great admiration of George's new and gaily-bedizened suit, went a
great way towards reconciling that young gentleman to his new situation.

In a few days they arrived in New Orleans. There, under the kind care of
Mr. Moyese, he began to exhibit great signs of intelligence. The atmosphere
into which he was now thrown, the kindness of which he was hourly the
recipient, called into vigour abilities that would have been stifled for
ever beneath the blighting influences that surrounded him under his former
master. The old gentleman had him taught to read and write, and his aptness
was such as to highly gratify the kind old soul.

In course of time, the temporary absence of an out-door clerk caused
George's services to be required at the office for a few days, as
errand-boy. Here he made himself so useful as to induce Mr. Moyese to
keep him there permanently. After this he went through all the grades from
errand-boy up to chief-clerk, which post he filled to the full satisfaction
of his employer. His manners and person improved with his circumstances;
and at the time he occupied the chief-clerk's desk, no one would have
suspected him to be a slave, and few who did not know his history would
have dreamed that he had a drop of African blood in his veins. He was
unremitting in his attention to the duties of his station, and gained, by
his assiduity and amiable deportment, the highest regard of his employer.

A week before a certain New-year's-day, Mr. Moyese sat musing over some
presents that had just been sent home, and which he was on the morrow to
distribute amongst his nephews and nieces. "Why, bless me!" he suddenly
exclaimed, turning them over, "why, I've entirely forgotten George! That
will never do; I must get something for him. What shall it be? He has a
fine watch, and I gave him a pin and ring last year. I really don't know
what will be suitable," and he sat for some time rubbing his chin,
apparently in deep deliberation. "Yes, I'll do it!" he exclaimed, starting
up; "I'll do it! He has been a faithful fellow, and deserves it. I'll make
him a present of himself! Now, how strange it is I never thought of that
before--it's just the thing;--how surprised and delighted he will be!" and
the old gentleman laughed a low, gentle, happy laugh, that had in it so
little of selfish pleasure, that had you only heard him you must have loved
him for it.

Having made up his mind to surprise George in this agreeable manner, Mr.
Moyese immediately wrote a note, which he despatched to his lawyers,
Messrs. Ketchum and Lee, desiring them to make out a set of free papers for
his boy George, and to have them ready for delivery on the morrow, as it
was his custom to give his presents two or three days in advance of the
coming year.

The note found Mr. Ketchum deep in a disputed will case, upon the decision
of which depended the freedom of some half-dozen slaves, who had been
emancipated by the will of their late master; by which piece of posthumous
benevolence his heirs had been greatly irritated, and were in consequence
endeavouring to prove him insane.

"Look at that, Lee," said he, tossing the note to his partner; "if that old
Moyese isn't the most curious specimen of humanity in all New Orleans! He
is going to give away clear fifteen hundred dollars as a New-year's gift!"

"To whom?" asked Mr. Lee.

"He has sent me orders," replied Mr. Ketchum, "to make out a set of free
papers for his boy George."

"Well, I can't say that I see so much in that," said Lee; "how can he
expect to keep him? George is almost as white as you or I, and has the
manners and appearance of a gentleman. He might walk off any day without
the least fear of detection."

"Very true," rejoined Ketchum, "but I don't think he would do it. He is
very much attached to the old gentleman, and no doubt would remain with him
as long as the old man lives. But I rather think the heirs would have to
whistle for him after Moyese was put under ground. However," concluded Mr.
Ketchum, "they won't have much opportunity to dispute the matter, as he
will be a free man, no doubt, before he is forty-eight hours older."

A day or two after this, Mr. Moyese entertained all his nephews and nieces
at dinner, and each was gratified with some appropriate gift. The old man
sat happily regarding the group that crowded round him, their faces beaming
with delight. The claim for the seat of honour on Uncle Moyese's knee was
clamorously disputed, and the old gentleman was endeavouring to settle it
to the satisfaction of all parties, when a servant entered, and delivered a
portentous-looking document, tied with red tape. "Oh, the papers--now, my
dears, let uncle go. Gustave, let go your hold of my leg, or I can't get
up. Amy, ring the bell, dear." This operation Mr. Moyese was obliged to
lift her into the chair to effect, where she remained tugging at the
bell-rope until she was lifted out again by the servant, who came running
in great haste to answer a summons of such unusual vigour.

"Tell George I want him," said Mr. Moyese.

"He's gone down to the office; I hearn him say suffin bout de nordern mail
as he went out--but I duno what it was"--and as he finished he vanished
from the apartment, and might soon after have been seen with his mouth in
close contact with the drumstick of a turkey.

Mr. Moyese being now released from the children, took his way to the
office, with the portentous red-tape document that was to so greatly change
the condition of George Winston in his coat pocket. The old man sat down at
his desk, smiling, as he balanced the papers in his hand, at the thought of
the happiness he was about to confer on his favourite. He was thus engaged
when the door opened, and George entered, bearing some newly-arrived orders
from European correspondents, in reference to which he sought Mr. Moyese's
instructions.

"I think, sir," said he, modestly, "that we had better reply at once to
Ditson, and send him the advance he requires, as he will not otherwise be
able to fill these;" and as he concluded he laid the papers on the table,
and stood waiting orders respecting them.

Mr. Moyese laid down the packet, and after looking over the papers George
had brought in, replied: "I think we had. Write to him to draw upon us for
the amount he requires.--And, George," he continued, looking at him
benevolently, "what would you like for a New-year's present?"

"Anything you please, sir," was the respectful reply.

"Well, George," resumed Mr. Moyese, "I have made up my mind to make you a
present of----" here he paused and looked steadily at him for a few
seconds; and then gravely handing him the papers, concluded, "of yourself,
George! Now mind and don't throw my present away, my boy." George stood
for some moments looking in a bewildered manner, first at his master, then
at the papers. At last the reality of his good fortune broke fully upon
him, and he sank into a chair, and unable to say more than: "God bless you,
Mr. Moyese!" burst into tears.

"Now you are a pretty fellow," said the old man, sobbing himself, "it's
nothing to cry about--get home as fast as you can, you stupid cry-baby, and
mind you are here early in the morning, sir, for I intend to pay you five
hundred dollars a-year, and I mean you to earn it," and thus speaking he
bustled out of the room, followed by George's repeated "God bless you!"
That "God bless you" played about his ears at night, and soothed him to
sleep; in dreams he saw it written in diamond letters on a golden crown,
held towards him by a hand outstretched from the azure above. He fancied
the birds sang it to him in his morning walk, and that he heard it in the
ripple of the little stream that flowed at the foot of his garden. So he
could afford to smile when his relatives talked about his mistaken
generosity, and could take refuge in that fervent "God bless you!"

Six years after this event Mr. Moyese died, leaving George a sufficient
legacy to enable him to commence business on his own account. As soon as he
had arranged his affairs, he started for his old home, to endeavour to gain
by personal exertions what he had been unable to learn through the agency
of others--a knowledge of the fate of his mother. He ascertained that she
had been sold and re-sold, and had finally died in New Orleans, not more
than three miles from where he had been living. He had not even the
melancholy satisfaction of finding her grave. During his search for his
mother he had become acquainted with Emily, the wife of Mr. Garie, and
discovered that she was his cousin; and to this was owing the familiar
footing on which we find him in the household where we first introduced him
to our readers.

Mr. Winston had just returned from a tour through the Northern States,
where he had been in search of a place in which to establish himself in
business.

The introductions with which Mr. Garie had kindly favoured him, had enabled
him to see enough of Northern society to convince him, that, amongst the
whites, he could not form either social or business connections, should his
identity with, the African race be discovered; and whilst, on the other
hand, he would have found sufficiently refined associations amongst the
people of colour to satisfy his social wants, he felt that he could not
bear the isolation and contumely to which they were subjected. He,
therefore, decided on leaving the United States, and on going to some
country where, if he must struggle for success in life, he might do it
without the additional embarrassments that would be thrown in his way in
his native land, solely because he belonged to an oppressed race.



CHAPTER II.

A Glance at the Ellis Family.


"I wish Charlie would come with that tea," exclaimed Mrs. Ellis, who sat
finishing off some work, which had to go home that evening. "I wonder what
can keep him so long away. He has been gone over an hour; it surely cannot
take him that time to go to Watson's."

"It is a great distance, mother," said Esther Ellis, who was busily plying
her needle; "and I don't think he has been quite so long as you suppose."

"Yes; he has been gone a good hour," repeated Mrs. Ellis. "It is now six
o'clock, and it wanted three minutes to five when he left. I do hope he
won't forget that I told him half black and half green--he is so
forgetful!" And Mrs. Ellis rubbed her spectacles and looked peevishly out
of the window as she concluded.--"Where can he be?" she resumed, looking in
the direction in which he might be expected. "Oh, here he comes, and Caddy
with him. They have just turned the corner--open the door and let them in."

Esther arose, and on opening the door was almost knocked down by Charlie's
abrupt entrance into the apartment, he being rather forcibly shoved in by
his sister Caroline, who appeared to be in a high state of indignation.

"Where do you think he was, mother? Where _do_ you think I found him?"

"Well, I can't say--I really don't know; in some mischief, I'll be bound."

"He was on the lot playing marbles--and I've had such a time to get him
home. Just look at his knees; they are worn through. And only think,
mother, the tea was lying on the ground, and might have been carried off,
if I had not happened to come that way. And then he has been fighting and
struggling with me all the way home. See," continued she, baring her arm,
"just look how he has scratched me," and as she spoke she held out the
injured member for her mother's inspection.

"Mother," said Charlie, in his justification, "she began to beat me before
all the boys, before I had said a word to her, and I wasn't going to stand
that. She is always storming at me. She don't give me any peace of my
life."

"Oh yes, mother," here interposed Esther; "Cad is too cross to him. I must
say, that he would not be as bad as he is, if she would only let him
alone."

"Esther, please hush now; you have nothing to do with their quarrels. I'll
settle all their differences. You always take his part whether he be right
or wrong. I shall send him to bed without his tea, and to-morrow I will
take his marbles from him; and if I see his knees showing through his pants
again, I'll put a red patch on them--that's what I'll do. Now, sir, go to
bed, and don't let me hear of you until morning."

Mr. and Mrs. Ellis were at the head of a highly respectable and industrious
 family. They had three children. Esther, the eldest, was a girl of
considerable beauty, and amiable temper. Caroline, the second child, was
plain in person, and of rather shrewish disposition; she was a most
indefatigable housewife, and was never so happy as when in possession of a
dust or scrubbing brush; she would have regarded a place where she could
have lived in a perpetual state of house cleaning, as an earthly paradise.
Between her and Master Charlie continued warfare existed, interrupted only
by brief truces brought about by her necessity for his services as
water-carrier. When a service of this character had been duly rewarded by a
slice of bread and preserves, or some other dainty, hostilities would
most probably be recommenced by Charlie's making an inroad upon the newly
cleaned floor, and leaving the prints of his muddy boots thereon.

The fact must here be candidly stated, that Charlie was not a tidy boy. He
despised mats, and seldom or never wiped his feet on entering the house; he
was happiest when he could don his most dilapidated unmentionables, as he
could then sit down where he pleased without the fear of his mother before
his eyes, and enter upon a game of marbles with his mind perfectly free
from all harassing cares growing out of any possible accident to the
aforesaid garments, so that he might give that attention to the game that
its importance demanded.

He was a bright-faced pretty boy, clever at his lessons, and a favourite
both with tutors and scholars. He had withal a thorough boy's fondness for
play, and was also characterised by all the thoughtlessness consequent
thereon. He possessed a lively, affectionate disposition, and was generally
at peace with all the world, his sister Caddy excepted.

Caroline had recovered her breath, and her mind being soothed by the
judgment that had been pronounced on Master Charlie, she began to bustle
about to prepare tea.

The shining copper tea-kettle was brought from the stove where it had been
seething and singing for the last half-hour; then the tea-pot of china
received its customary quantity of tea, which was set upon the stove to
brew, and carefully placed behind the stove pipe that no accidental touch
of the elbow might bring it to destruction. Plates, knives, and teacups
came rattling forth from the closet; the butter was brought from the place
where it had been placed to keep it cool, and a corn-cake was soon smoking
on the table, and sending up its seducing odour into the room over-head to
which Charlie had been recently banished, causing to that unfortunate young
gentleman great physical discomfort.

"Now, mother," said the bustling Caddy, "it's all ready. Come now and sit
down whilst the cake is hot--do put up the sewing, Esther, and come!"

Neither Esther nor her mother needed much pressing, and they were
accordingly soon seated round the table on which their repast was spread.

"Put away a slice of this cake for father," said Mrs. Ellis, "for he won't
be home until late; he is obliged to attend a vestry meeting to-night."

Mrs. Ellis sat for some time sipping the fragrant and refreshing tea. When
the contents of two or three cups one after another had disappeared, and
sundry slices of corn-bread had been deposited where much corn-bread had
been deposited before, she began to think about Charlie, and to imagine
that perhaps she had been rather hasty in sending him to bed without his
supper.

"What had Charlie to-day in his dinner-basket to take to school with him?"
she inquired of Caddy.

"Why, mother, I put in enough for a wolf; three or four slices of bread,
with as many more of corn-beef, some cheese, one of those little pies, and
all that bread-pudding which was left at dinner yesterday--he must have had
enough."

"But, mother, you know he always gives away the best part of his dinner,"
interposed Esther. "He supplies two or three boys with food. There is that
dirty Kinch that he is so fond of, who never takes any dinner with him, and
depends entirely upon Charlie. He must be hungry; do let him come down and
get his tea, mother?"

Notwithstanding the observations of Caroline that Esther was just
persuading her mother to spoil the boy, that he would be worse than ever,
and many other similar predictions. Esther and the tea combined won a
signal triumph, and Charlie was called down from the room above, where he
had been exchanging telegraphic communications with the before-mentioned
Kinch, in hopes of receiving a commutation of sentence.

Charlie was soon seated at the table with an ample allowance of corn-bread
and tea, and he looked so demure, and conducted himself in such an
exemplary manner, that one would have scarcely thought him given to marbles
and dirty company. Having eaten to his satisfaction he quite ingratiated
himself with Caddy by picking up all the crumbs he had spilled during tea,
and throwing them upon the dust-heap. This last act was quite a stroke of
policy, as even Caddy began to regard him as capable of reformation.

The tea-things washed up and cleared away, the females busied themselves
with their sewing, and Charlie immersed himself in his lessons for the
morrow with a hearty goodwill and perseverance as if he had abjured marbles
for ever.

The hearty supper and persevering attention to study soon began to produce
their customary effect upon Charlie. He could not get on with his lessons.
Many of the state capitals positively refused to be found, and he was
beginning to entertain the sage notion that probably some of the
legislatures had come to the conclusion to dispense with them altogether,
or had had them placed in such obscure places that they could not be found.
The variously  states began to form a vast kaleidoscope, in which
the lakes and rivers had been entirely swallowed up. Ranges of mountains
disappeared, and gulfs and bays and islands were entirely lost. In fact, he
was sleepy, and had already had two or three narrow escapes from butting
over the candles; finally he fell from his chair, crushing Caddy's
newly-trimmed bonnet, to the intense grief and indignation of that young
lady, who inflicted summary vengeance upon him before he was sufficiently
awake to be aware of what had happened.

The work being finished, Mrs. Ellis and Caddy prepared to take it home to
Mrs. Thomas, leaving Esther at home to receive her father on his return and
give him his tea.

Mrs. Ellis and Caddy wended their way towards the fashionable part of the
city, looking in at the various shop-windows as they went. Numberless were
the great bargains they saw there displayed, and divers were the
discussions they held respecting them. "Oh, isn't that a pretty calico,
mother, that with the green ground?"

"'Tis pretty, but it won't wash, child; those colours always run."

"Just look at that silk though--now that's cheap, you must
acknowledge--only eighty-seven and a half cents; if I only had a dress of
that I should be fixed."

"Laws, Caddy!" replied Mrs. Ellis, "that stuff is as slazy as a washed
cotton handkerchief, and coarse enough almost to sift sand through. It
wouldn't last you any time. The silks they make now-a-days ain't worth
anything; they don't wear well at all. Why," continued she, "when I was a
girl they made silks that would stand on end--and one of them would last a
life-time."

They had now reached Chestnut-street, which was filled with gaily-dressed
people, enjoying the balmy breath of a soft May evening. Mrs. Ellis and
Caddy walked briskly onward, and were soon beyond the line of shops, and
entered upon the aristocratic quarter into which many of its residents had
retired, that they might be out of sight of the houses in which their
fathers or grandfathers had made their fortunes.

"Mother," said Caddy, "this is Mr. Grant's new house--isn't it a splendid
place? They say it's like a palace inside. They are great people, them
Grants. I saw in the newspaper yesterday that young Mr. Augustus Grant had
been appointed an attache to the American legation at Paris; the newspapers
say he is a rising man."

"Well, he ought to be," rejoined Mrs. Ellis, "for his old grand-daddy made
yeast enough to raise the whole family. Many a pennyworth has he sold me.
Laws! how the poor old folk do get up! I think I can see the old man now,
with his sleeves rolled up, dealing out his yeast. He wore one coat for
about twenty years, and used to be always bragging about it."

As they were thus talking, a door of one of the splendid mansions they were
passing opened, and a fashionably-dressed young man came slowly down the
steps, and walked on before them with a very measured step and peculiar
gait.

"That's young Dr. Whiston, mother," whispered Caddy; "he's courting young
Miss Morton."

"You don't say so!" replied the astonished Mrs. Ellis. "Why, I declare his
grandfather laid her grandfather out! Old Whiston was an undertaker, and
used to make the handsomest coffins of his time. And he is going to marry
Miss Morton! What next, I'd like to know! He walks exactly like the old
man. I used to mock him when I was a little girl. He had just that
hop-and-go kind of gait, and he was the funniest man that ever lived. I've
seen him at a funeral go into the parlour, and condole with the family, and
talk about the dear departed until the tears rolled down his cheeks; and
then he'd be down in the kitchen, eating and drinking, and laughing, and
telling jokes about the corpses, before the tears were dry on his face. How
he used to make money! He buried almost all the respectable people about
town, and made a large fortune. He owned a burying-ground in Coates-street,
and when the property in that vicinity became valuable, he turned the dead
folks out, and built houses on the ground!"

"I shouldn't say it was a very pleasant place to live in, if there are such
things as ghosts," said Caddy, laughing; "I for one wouldn't like to live
there--but here we are at Mr. Thomas's--how short the way has seemed!"

Caroline gave a fierce rap at the door, which was opened by old Aunt
Rachel, the fat cook, who had lived with the Thomases for a fabulous length
of time. She was an old woman when Mrs. Ellis came as a girl into the
family, and had given her many a cuff in days long past; in fact,
notwithstanding Mrs. Ellis had been married many years, and had children
almost as old as she herself was when she left Mr. Thomas, Aunt Rachel
could never be induced to regard her otherwise than as a girl.

"Oh, it's you, is it?" said she gruffly, as she opened the door; "don't
you think better break de door down at once-rapping as if you was guine to
tear off de knocker--is dat de way, gal, you comes to quality's houses? You
lived here long nuff to larn better dan dat--and dis is twice I've been to
de door in de last half-hour--if any one else comes dere they may stay
outside. Shut de door after you, and come into de kitchen, and don't keep
me standin' here all night," added she, puffing and blowing as she waddled
back into her sanctum.

Waiting until the irate old cook had recovered her breath, Mrs. Ellis
modestly inquired if Mrs. Thomas was at home. "Go up and see," was the
surly response. "You've been up stars often enuff to know de way--go long
wid you, gal, and don't be botherin' me, 'case I don't feel like bein'
bothered--now, mind I tell yer.--Here, you Cad, set down on dis stool, and
let that cat alone; I don't let any one play with my cat," continued she,
"and you'll jest let him alone, if you please, or I'll make you go sit in
de entry till your mother's ready to go. I don't see what she has you brats
tugging after her for whenever she comes here--she might jest as well leave
yer at home to darn your stockings--I 'spect dey want it."

Poor Caddy was boiling over with wrath; but deeming prudence the better
part of valour, she did not venture upon any wordy contest with Aunt
Rachel, but sat down upon the stool by the fire-place, in which a bright
fire was blazing. Up the chimney an old smoke-jack was clicking, whirling,
and making the most dismal noise imaginable. This old smoke-jack was Aunt
Rachel's especial _protege_, and she obstinately and successfully defended
it against all comers. She turned up her nose at all modern inventions
designed for the same use as entirely beneath her notice. She had been
accustomed to hearing its rattle for the last forty years, and would as
soon have thought of committing suicide as consenting to its removal.

She and her cat were admirably matched; he was as snappish and cross as
she, and resented with distended claws and elevated back all attempts on
the part of strangers to cultivate amicable relations with him. In fact,
Tom's pugnacious disposition was clearly evidenced by his appearance; one
side of his face having a very battered aspect, and the fur being torn off
his back in several places.

Caddy sat for some time surveying the old woman and her cat, in evident awe
of both. She regarded also with great admiration the scrupulously clean and
shining kitchen tins that garnished the walls and reflected the red light
of the blazing fire. The wooden dresser was a miracle of whiteness, and
ranged thereon was a set of old-fashioned blue china, on which was
displayed the usual number of those unearthly figures which none but the
Chinese can create. Tick, tick, went the old Dutch clock in the corner, and
the smoke-jack kept up its whirring noise. Old Tom and Aunt Rachel were
both napping; and so Caddy, having no other resource, went to sleep also.

Mrs. Ellis found her way without any difficulty to Mrs. Thomas's room. Her
gentle tap upon the door quite flurried that good lady, who (we speak it
softly) was dressing her wig, a task she entrusted to no other mortal
hands. She peeped out, and seeing who it was, immediately opened the door
without hesitation.

"Oh, it's you, is it? Come in, Ellen," said she; "I don't mind you."

"I've brought the night-dresses home," said Mrs. Ellis, laying her bundle
upon the table,--"I hope they'll suit."

"Oh, no doubt they will. Did you bring the bill?" asked Mrs. Thomas.

The bill was produced, and Mrs. Ellis sat down, whilst Mrs. Thomas counted
out the money. This having been duly effected, and the bill carefully
placed on the file, Mrs. Thomas also sat down, and commenced her usual
lamentation over the state of her nerves, and the extravagance of the
younger members of the family. On the latter subject she spoke very
feelingly. "Such goings on, Ellen, are enough to set me crazy--so many
nurses--and then we have to keep four horses--and it's company, company
from Monday morning until Saturday night; the house is kept upside-down
continually--money, money for everything--all going out, and nothing coming
in!"--and the unfortunate Mrs. Thomas whined and groaned as if she had not
at that moment an income of clear fifteen thousand dollars a year, and a
sister who might die any day and leave her half as much more.

Mrs. Thomas was the daughter of the respectable old gentleman whom Dr.
Whiston's grandfather had prepared for his final resting-place. Her
daughter had married into a once wealthy, but now decayed, Carolina family.
In consideration of the wealth bequeathed by her grandfather (who was a
maker of leather breeches, and speculator in general), Miss Thomas had
received the offer of the poverty-stricken hand of Mr. Morton, and had
accepted it with evident pleasure, as he was undoubtedly a member of one of
the first families of the South, and could prove a distant connection with
one of the noble families of England.

They had several children, and their incessant wants had rendered it
necessary that another servant should be kept. Now Mrs. Thomas had long had
her eye on Charlie, with a view of incorporating him with the Thomas
establishment, and thought this would be a favourable time to broach the
subject to his mother: she therefore commenced by inquiring--

"How have you got through the winter, Ellen? Everything has been so dear
that even we have felt the effect of the high prices."

"Oh, tolerably well, I thank you. Husband's business, it is true, has not
been as brisk as usual, but we ought not to complain; now that we have got
the house paid for, and the girls do so much sewing, we get on very
nicely."

"I should think three children must be something of a burthen--must be hard
to provide for."

"Oh no, not at all," rejoined Mrs. Ellis, who seemed rather surprised at
Mrs. Thomas's uncommon solicitude respecting them. "We have never found the
children a burthen, thank God--they're rather a comfort and a pleasure than
otherwise."


"I'm glad to hear you say so, Ellen--very glad, indeed, for I have been
quite disturbed in mind respecting you during the winter. I really several
times thought of sending to take Charlie off your hands: by-the-way, what
is he doing now?"

"He goes to school regularly--he hasn't missed a day all winter. You should
just see his writing," continued Mrs. Ellis, warming up with a mother's
pride in her only son--"he won't let the girls make out any of the bills,
but does it all himself--he made out yours."

Mrs. Thomas took down the file and looked at the bill again. "It's very
neatly written, very neatly written, indeed; isn't it about time that he
left school--don't you think he has education enough?" she inquired.

"His father don't. He intends sending him to another school, after
vacation, where they teach Latin and Greek, and a number of other
branches."

"Nonsense, nonsense, Ellen! If I were you, I wouldn't hear of it. There
won't be a particle of good result to the child from any such acquirements.
It isn't as though he was a white child. What use can Latin or Greek be to
a <DW52> boy? None in the world--he'll have to be a common mechanic, or,
perhaps, a servant, or barber, or something of that kind, and then what use
would all his fine education be to him? Take my advice, Ellen, and don't
have him taught things that will make him feel above the situation he, in
all probability, will have to fill. Now," continued she, "I have a proposal
to make to you: let him come and live with me awhile--I'll pay you well,
and take good care of him; besides, he will be learning something here,
good manners, &c. Not that he is not a well-mannered child; but, you know,
Ellen, there is something every one learns by coming in daily contact with
refined and educated people that cannot but be beneficial--come now, make
up your mind to leave him with me, at least until the winter, when the
schools again commence, and then, if his father is still resolved to send
him back to school, why he can do so. Let me have him for the summer at
least."

Mrs. Ellis, who had always been accustomed to regard Mrs. Thomas as a
miracle of wisdom, was, of course, greatly impressed with what she had
said. She had lived many years in her family, and had left it to marry Mr.
Ellis, a thrifty mechanic, who came from Savanah, her native city. She had
great reverence for any opinion Mrs. Thomas expressed; and, after some
further conversation on the subject, made up her mind to consent to the
proposal, and left her with the intention of converting her husband to her
way of thinking.

On descending to the kitchen she awoke Caddy from a delicious dream, in
which she had been presented with the black silk that they had seen in the
shop window marked eighty-seven and a half cents a yard. In the dream she
had determined to make it up with tight sleeves and infant waist, that
being the most approved style at that period.

"Five breadths are not enough for the skirt, and if I take six I must skimp
the waist and cape," murmured she in her sleep.

"Wake up, girl! What are you thinking about?" said her mother, giving her
another shake.

"Oh!" said Caddy, with a wild and disappointed look--"I was dreaming,
wasn't I? I declare I thought I had that silk frock in the window."

"The girls' heads are always running on finery--wake up, and come along,
I'm going home."

Caddy followed her mother out, leaving Aunt Rachel and Tom nodding at each
other as they dozed before the fire.

That night Mr. Ellis and his wife had a long conversation upon the proposal
of Mrs. Thomas; and after divers objections raised by him, and set aside
by her, it was decided that Charlie should be permitted to go there for the
holidays at least; after which, his father resolved he should be sent to
school again.

Charlie, the next morning, looked very blank on being informed of his
approaching fate. Caddy undertook with great alacrity to break the dismal
tidings to him, and enlarged in a glowing manner upon what times he might
expect from Aunt Rachel.

"I guess she'll keep you straight;--you'll see sights up there! She is
cross as sin--she'll make you wipe your feet when you go in and out, if no
one else can."

"Let him alone, Caddy," gently interposed Esther; "it is bad enough to be
compelled to live in a house with that frightful old woman, without being
annoyed about it beforehand. If I could help it, Charlie, you should not
go."

"I know you'd keep me home if you could--but old Cad, here, she always
rejoices if anything happens to me. I'll be hanged if I stay there," said
he. "I won't live at service--I'd rather be a sweep, or sell apples on the
dock. I'm not going to be stuck up behind their carriage, dressed up like a
monkey in a tail coat--I'll cut off my own head first." And with this
sanguinary threat he left the house, with his school-books under his arm,
intending to lay the case before his friend and adviser, the redoubtable
and sympathising Kinch.



CHAPTER III.

Charlie's Trials.


Charlie started for school with a heavy heart. Had it not been for his
impending doom of service in Mr. Thomas's family, he would have been the
happiest boy that ever carried a school-bag.

It did not require a great deal to render this young gentleman happy. All
that was necessary to make up a day of perfect joyfulness with him, was a
dozen marbles, permission to wear his worst inexpressibles, and to be
thoroughly up in his lessons. To-day he was possessed of all these
requisites, but there was also in the perspective along array of skirmishes
with Aunt Rachel, who, he knew, looked on him with an evil eye, and who had
frequently expressed herself regarding him, in his presence, in terms by no
means complimentary or affectionate; and the manner in which she had
intimated her desire, on one or two occasions, to have an opportunity of
reforming his personal habits, were by no means calculated to produce a
happy frame of mind, now that the opportunity was about to be afforded her.

Charlie sauntered on until he came to a lumber-yard, where he stopped and
examined a corner of the fence very attentively. "Not gone by yet. I must
wait for him," said he; and forthwith he commenced climbing the highest
pile of boards, the top of which he reached at the imminent risk of his
neck. Here he sat awaiting the advent of his friend Kinch, the absence of
death's head and cross bones from the corner of the fence being a clear
indication that he had not yet passed on his way to school.

Soon, however, he was espied in the distance, and as he was quite a
character in his way, we must describe him. His most prominent feature was
a capacious hungry-looking mouth, within which glistened a row of perfect
teeth. He had the merriest twinkling black eyes, and a nose so small and
flat that it would have been a prize to any editor living, as it would have
been a physical impossibility to have pulled it, no matter what outrage he
had committed. His complexion was of a ruddy brown, and his hair, entirely
innocent of a comb, was decorated with divers feathery tokens of his last
night's rest. A cap with the front torn off, jauntily set on one side of
his head, gave him a rakish and wide-awake air, his clothes were patched
and torn in several places, and his shoes were already in an advanced stage
of decay. As he approached the fence he took a piece of chalk from his
pocket, and commenced to sketch the accustomed startling illustration which
was to convey to Charlie the intelligence that he had already passed there
on his way to school, when a quantity of sawdust came down in a shower on
his head. As soon as the blinding storm had ceased, Kinch looked up and
intimated to Charlie that it was quite late, and that there was a
probability of their being after time at school.

This information caused Charlie to make rather a hasty descent, in doing
which his dinner-basket was upset, and its contents displayed at the feet
of the voracious Kinch.

"Now I'll be even with you for that sawdust," cried he, as he pocketed two
boiled eggs, and bit an immense piece out of an apple-tart, which he would
have demolished completely but for the prompt interposition of its owner.

"Oh! my golly! Charlie, your mother makes good pies!" he exclaimed with
rapture, as soon as he could get his mouth sufficiently clear to speak.
"Give us another bite,--only a nibble."

But Charlie knew by experience what Kinch's "nibbles" were, and he very
wisely declined, saying sadly as he did so, "You won't get many more
dinners from me, Kinch. I'm going to leave school." "No! you ain't
though, are you?" asked the astonished Kinch. "You are not going, are you,
really?"

"Yes, really," replied Charlie, with a doleful look; "mother is going to
put me out at service."

"And do you intend to go?" asked Kinch, looking at him incredulously.

"Why of course," was the reply. "How can I help going if father and mother
say I must?"

"I tell you what I should do," said Kinch, "if it was me. I should act so
bad that the people would be glad to get rid of me. They hired me out to
live once, and I led the people they put me with such a dance, that they
was glad enough to send me home again."

This observation brought them to the school-house, which was but a trifling
distance from the residence of Mrs. Ellis.

They entered the school at the last moment of grace, and Mr. Dicker looked
at them severely as they took their seats. "Just saved ourselves,"
whispered Kinch; "a minute later and we would have been done for;" and with
this closing remark he applied himself to his grammar, a very judicious
move on his part, for he had not looked at his lesson, and there were but
ten minutes to elapse before the class would be called.

The lessons were droned through as lessons usually are at school. There was
the average amount of flogging performed; cakes, nuts, and candy,
confiscated; little boys on the back seats punched one another as little
boys on the back seats always will do, and were flogged in consequence.
Then the boy who never knew his lessons was graced with the fool's cap, and
was pointed and stared at until the arrival of the play-hour relieved him
from his disagreeable situation.

"What kind of folks are these Thomases?" asked Kinch, as he sat beside
Charlie in the playground munching the last of the apple-tart; "what kind
of folks are they? Tell me that, and I can give you some good advice,
may-be."

"Old Mrs. Thomas is a little dried-up old woman, who wears spectacles and
a wig. She isn't of much account--I don't mind her. She's not the trouble;
it's of old Aunt Rachel, I'm thinking. Why, she has threatened to whip me
when I've been there with mother, and she even talks to her sometimes as if
she was a little girl. Lord only knows what she'll do to me when she has me
there by myself. You should just see her and her cat. I really don't know,"
continued Charlie, "which is the worst looking. I hate them both like
poison," and as he concluded, he bit into a piece of bread as fiercely as
if he were already engaged in a desperate battle with aunt Rachel, and was
biting her in self-defence.

"Well," said Kinch, with the air of a person of vast experience in
difficult cases, "I should drown the cat--I'd do that at once--as soon as I
got there; then, let me ask you, has Aunt Rachel got corns?"

"Corns! I wish you could see her shoes," replied Charlie. "Why you could
sail down the river in 'em, they are so large. Yes, she has got corns,
bunions, and rheumatism, and everything else."

"Ah! then," said Kinch, "your way is clear enough if she has got corns. I
should confine myself to operating on them. I should give my whole
attention to her feet. When she attempts to take hold of you, do you jist
come down on her corns, fling your shins about kinder wild, you know, and
let her have it on both feet. You see I've tried that plan, and know by
experience that it works well. Don't you see, you can pass that off as an
accident, and it don't look well to be scratching and biting. As for the
lady of the house, old Mrs. what's-her-name, do you just manage to knock
her wig off before some company, and they'll send you home at once--they'll
hardly give you time to get your hat."

Charlie laid these directions aside in his mind for future application, and
asked,

"What did you do, Kinch, to get away from the people you were with?"

"Don't ask me," said Kinch, laughing; "don't, boy, don't ask me--my
conscience troubles me awful about it sometimes. I fell up stairs with
dishes, and I fell down stairs with dishes. I spilled oil on the carpet,
and broke a looking-glass; but it was all accidental--entirely
accidental--they found I was too ''spensive,' and so they sent me home."

"Oh, I wouldn't do anything like that--I wouldn't destroy anything--but
I've made up my mind that I won't stay there at any rate. I don't mind
work--I want to do something to assist father and mother; but I don't want
to be any one's servant. I wish I was big enough to work at the shop."

"How did your mother come to think of putting you there?" asked Kinch.

"The Lord alone knows," was the reply. "I suppose old Mrs. Thomas told her
it was the best thing that could be done for me, and mother thinks what she
says is law and gospel. I believe old Mrs. Thomas thinks a <DW52> person
can't get to Heaven, without first living at service a little while."

The school bell ringing put an end to this important conversation, and the
boys recommenced their lessons.

When Charlie returned from school, the first person he saw on entering the
house was Robberts, Mrs. Thomas's chief functionary, and the presiding
genius of the wine cellar--when he was trusted with the key. Charlie
learned, to his horror and dismay, that he had been sent by Mrs. Thomas to
inquire into the possibility of obtaining his services immediately, as they
were going to have a series of dinner parties, and it was thought that he
could be rendered quite useful.

"And must I go, mother?" he asked.

"Yes, my son; I've told Robberts that you shall come up in the morning,"
replied Mrs. Ellis. Then turning to Robberts, she inquired, "How is Aunt
Rachel?"

At this question, the liveried gentleman from Mrs. Thomas's shook his head
dismally, and answered: "Don't ask me, woman; don't ask me, if you please.
That old sinner gets worse and worse every day she lives. These dinners
we're 'spectin to have has just set her wild--she is mad as fury 'bout
'em--and she snaps me up just as if I was to blame. That is an awful old
woman, now mind I tell you."

As Mr. Robberts concluded, he took his hat and departed, giving Charlie the
cheering intelligence that he should expect him early next morning.

Charlie quite lost his appetite for supper in consequence of his
approaching trials, and, laying aside his books with a sigh of regret, sat
listlessly regarding his sisters; enlivened now and then by some cheerful
remark from Caddy, such as:--

"You'll have to keep your feet cleaner up there than you do at home, or
you'll have aunt Rach in your wool half a dozen times a day. And you
mustn't throw your cap and coat down where you please, on the chairs or
tables--she'll bring you out of all that in a short time. I expect you'll
have two or three bastings before you have been there a week, for she don't
put up with any nonsense. Ah, boy," she concluded, chuckling, "you'll have
a time of it--I don't envy you!"

With these and similar enlivening anticipations, Caddy whiled away the time
until it was the hour for Charlie to retire for the night, which he, did
with a heavy heart.

Early the following morning he was awakened by the indefatigable Caddy, and
he found a small bundle of necessaries prepared, until his trunk of apparel
could be sent to his new home. "Oh, Cad," he exclaimed, rubbing his eyes,
"how I do hate to go up there! I'd rather take a good whipping than go."

"Well, it is too late now to talk about it; hurry and get your clothes
on--it is quite late--you ought to have been off an hour ago."

When he came down stairs prepared to go, his mother "hoped that he was
going to behave like a man," which exhortation had the effect of setting
him crying at once; and then he had to be caressed by the tearful Esther,
and, finally, started away with very red eyes, followed to the door by his
mother and the girls, who stood looking after him for some moments.

So hurried and unexpected had been his departure, that he had been unable
to communicate with his friend Kinch. This weighed very heavily on his
spirits, and he occupied the time on his way to Mrs. Thomas's in devising
various plans to effect that object.

On arriving, he gave a faint rap, that was responded to by Aunt Rachel, who
saluted him with--

"Oh, yer's come, has yer--wipe your feet, child, and come in quick. Shut
the door after yer."

"What shall I do with this?" timidly asked he, holding up his package of
clothes.

"Oh, dem's yer rags is dey--fling 'em anywhere, but don't bring 'em in my
kitchen," said she. "Dere is enuff things in dere now--put 'em down here on
this entry table, or dere, long side de knife-Board--any wheres but in de
kitchen."

Charlie mechanically obeyed, and then followed her into her sanctuary.

"Have you had your breakfast?" she asked, in a surly tone. "'Cause if you
haven't, you must eat quick, or you won't get any. I can't keep the
breakfast things standing here all day."

Charlie, to whom the long walk had given a good appetite, immediately sat
down and ate a prodigious quantity of bread and butter, together with
several slices of cold ham, washed down by two cups of tea; after which he
rested his knife and fork, and informed Aunt Rachel that he had done.

"Well, I think it's high time," responded she. "Why, boy, you'll breed a
famine in de house if you stay here long enough. You'll have to do a heap
of work to earn what you'll eat, if yer breakfast is a sample of yer
dinner. Come, get up, child! and shell dese 'ere pease--time you get 'em
done, old Mrs. Thomas will be down stairs."

Charlie was thus engaged when Mrs. Thomas entered the kitchen. "Well,
Charles--good morning," said she, in a bland voice. "I'm glad to see you
here so soon. Has he had his breakfast, Aunt Rachel?"

"Yes; and he eat like a wild animal--I never see'd a child eat more in my
life," was Aunt Rachel's abrupt answer.

"I'm glad he has a good appetite," said Mrs. Thomas, "it shows he has good
health. Boys will eat; you can't expect them to work if they don't. But it
is time I was at those custards. Charlie, put down those peas and go into
the other room, and bring me a basket of eggs you will find on the table."

"And be sure to overset the milk that's 'long side of it--yer hear?" added
Aunt Rachel.

Charlie thought to himself that he would like to accommodate her, but he
denied himself that pleasure; on the ground that it might not be safe to do
it.

Mrs. Thomas was a housekeeper of the old school, and had a scientific
knowledge of the manner in which all sorts of pies and puddings were
compounded. She was so learned in custards and preserves that even Aunt
Rachel sometimes deferred to her superior judgment in these matters.
Carefully breaking the eggs, she skilfully separated the whites from the
yolks, and gave the latter to Charlie to beat. At first he thought it great
fun, and he hummed some of the popular melodies of the day, and kept time
with his foot and the spatula. But pretty soon he exhausted his stock of
tunes, and then the performances did not go off so well. His arm commenced
aching, and he came to the sage conclusion, before he was relieved from his
task, that those who eat the custards are much better off than those who
prepare them.

This task finished, he was pressed into service by Aunt Rachel, to pick and
stone some raisins which she gave him, with the injunction either to sing
or whistle all the time he was "at 'em;" and that if he stopped for a
moment she should know he was eating them, and in that case she would
visit him with condign punishment on the spot, for she didn't care a fig
whose child he was.

Thus, in the performance of first one little job and then another, the day
wore away; and as the hour approached at which the guests were invited,
Charlie, after being taken into the dining-room by Robberts, where he was
greatly amazed at the display of silver, cut glass, and elegant china, was
posted at the door to relieve the guests of their coats and hats, which
duty he performed to the entire satisfaction of all parties concerned.

At dinner, however, he was not so fortunate. He upset a plate of soup into
a gentleman's lap, and damaged beyond repair one of the elegant china
vegetable dishes. He took rather too deep an interest in the conversation
for a person in his station; and, in fact, the bright boy alluded to by Mr.
Winston, as having corrected the reverend gentleman respecting the
quotation from Chaucer, was no other than our friend Charlie Ellis.

In the evening, when the guests were departing, Charlie handed Mr. Winston
his coat, admiring the texture and cut of it very much as he did so. Mr.
Winston, amused at the boy's manner, asked--

"What is your name, my little man?"

"Charles Ellis," was the prompt reply. "I'm named after my father."

"And where did your father come from, Charlie?" he asked, looking very much
interested.

"From Savanah, sir. Now tell me where _you_ came from," replied Charles.

"I came from New Orleans," said Mr. Winston, with a smile. "Now tell me,"
he continued, "where do you live when you are with your parents? I should
like to see your father." Charlie quickly put his interrogator in
possession of the desired information, after which Mr. Winston departed,
soon followed by the other guests.

Charlie lay for some time that night on his little cot before he could get
to sleep; and amongst the many matters that so agitated his mind, was his
wonder what one of Mrs. Thomas's guests could want with his father. Being
unable however, to arrive at any satisfactory conclusion respecting it, he
turned over and went to sleep.



CHAPTER IV.

In which Mr. Winston finds an old Friend.


In the early part of Mr. Winston's career, when he worked as a boy on the
plantation of his father, he had frequently received great kindness at the
hands of one Charles Ellis, who was often employed as carpenter about the
premises.

On one occasion, as a great favour, he had been permitted to accompany
Ellis to his home in Savanah, which was but a few miles distant, where he
remained during the Christmas holidays. This kindness he had never
forgotten; and on his return to Georgia from New Orleans he sought for his
old friend, and found he had removed to the North, but to which particular
city he could not ascertain.

As he walked homewards, the strong likeness of little Charlie to his old
friend forced itself upon him, and the more he reflected upon it the more
likely it appeared that the boy might be his child; and the identity of
name and occupation between the father of Charlie and his old friend led to
the belief that he was about to make some discovery respecting him.

On his way to his hotel he passed the old State House, the bell of which
was just striking ten. "It's too late to go to-night," said he, "it shall
be the first thing I attend to in the morning;" and after walking on a
short distance farther, he found himself at the door of his domicile.

As he passed through the little knot of waiters who were gathered about the
doors, one of them turning to another, asked, "Ain't that man a Southerner,
and ain't he in your rooms, Ben?"

"I think he's a Southerner," was the reply of Ben. "But why do you ask,
Allen?" he enquired. "Because it's time he had subscribed something,"
replied Mr. Allen. "The funds of the Vigilance Committee are very low
indeed; in fact, the four that we helped through last week have completely
drained us. We must make a raise from some quarter, and we might as well
try it on him."

Mr. Winston was waiting for a light that he might retire to his room, and
was quickly served by the individual who had been so confidentially talking
with Mr. Allen.

After giving Mr. Winston the light, Ben followed him into his room and
busied himself in doing little nothings about the stove and wash-stand.
"Let me unbutton your straps, sir," said he, stooping down and commencing
on the buttons, which he was rather long in unclosing. "I know, sir, dat
you Southern gentlemen ain't used to doing dese yer things for youself. I
allus makes it a pint to show Southerners more 'tention dan I does to dese
yer Northern folk, 'cause yer see I knows dey'r used to it, and can't get
on widout it."

"I am not one of that kind," said Winston, as Ben slowly unbuttoned the
last strap. "I have been long accustomed to wait upon myself. I'll only
trouble you to bring me up a glass of fresh water, and then I shall have
done with you for the night."

"Better let me make you up a little fire, the nights is werry cool,"
continued Ben. "I know you must feel 'em; I does myself; I'm from the
South, too."

"Are you?" replied Mr. Winston, with some interest; "from what part!"

"From Tuckahoe county, Virginia; nice place dat."

"Never having been there I can't say," rejoined Mr. Winston, smiling; "and
how do you like the North? I suppose you are a runaway," continued he.

"Oh, no sir! no sir!" replied Ben, "I was sot free--and I often wish," he
added in a whining tone, "dat I was back agin on the old place--hain't got
no kind marster to look after me here, and I has to work drefful hard
sometimes. Ah," he concluded, drawing a long sigh, "if I was only back on
de old place!" "I heartily wish you were!" said Mr. Winston, indignantly,
"and wish moreover that you were to be tied up and whipped once a day for
the rest of your life. Any man that prefers slavery to freedom deserves to
be a slave--you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Go out of the room, sir,
as quick as possible!"

"Phew!" said the astonished and chagrined Ben, as he descended the stairs;
"that was certainly a great miss," continued he, talking as correct
English, and with as pure Northern an accent as any one could boast.

"We have made a great mistake this time; a very queer kind of Southerner
that is. I'm afraid we took the wrong pig by the ear;" and as he concluded,
he betook himself to the group of white-aproned gentlemen before mentioned,
to whom he related the incident that had just occurred.

"Quite a severe fall that, I should say," remarked Mr. Allen. "Perhaps we
have made a mistake and he is not a Southerner after all. Well he is
registered from New Orleans, and I thought he was a good one to try it on."

"It's a clear case we've missed it this time," exclaimed one of the party,
"and I hope, Ben, when you found he was on the other side of the fence, you
did not say too much."

"Laws, no!" rejoined Ben, "do you think I'm a fool? As soon as I heard him
say what he did, I was glad to get off--I felt cheap enough, now mind, I
tell you any one could have bought me for a shilling."

Now it must be here related that most of the waiters employed in this hotel
were also connected with the Vigilance Committee of the Under-ground
Railroad Company--a society formed for the assistance of fugitive slaves;
by their efforts, and by the timely information it was often in their power
to give, many a poor slave was enabled to escape from the clutches of his
pursuers.

The house in which they were employed was the great resort of Southerners,
who occasionally brought with them their slippery property; and it
frequently happened that these disappeared from the premises to parts
unknown, aided in their flight by the very waiters who would afterwards
exhibit the most profound ignorance as to their whereabouts. Such of the
Southerners as brought no servants with them were made to contribute,
unconsciously and most amusingly, to the escape of those of their friends.

When a gentleman presented himself at the bar wearing boots entirely too
small for him, with his hat so far down upon his forehead as almost to
obscure his eyes, and whose mouth was filled with oaths and tobacco, he was
generally looked upon as a favourable specimen to operate upon; and if he
cursed the waiters, addressed any old man amongst them as "boy," and was
continually drinking cock-tails and mint-juleps, they were sure of their
man; and then would tell him the most astonishing and distressing tales of
their destitution, expressing, almost with tears in their eyes, their deep
desire to return to their former masters; whilst perhaps the person from
whose mouth this tale of woe proceeded had been born in a neighbouring
street, and had never been south of Mason and Dixon's[*] line. This
flattering testimony in favour of "the peculiar institution" generally had
the effect of extracting a dollar or two from the purse of the sympathetic
Southerner; which money went immediately into the coffers of the Vigilance
Committee.

[Footnote *: The line dividing the free from the slave states.]

It was this course of conduct they were about to pursue with Mr. Winston;
not because he exhibited in person or manners any of the before-mentioned
peculiarities, but from his being registered from New Orleans.

The following morning, as soon as he had breakfasted, he started in search
of Mr. Ellis. The address was 18, Little Green-street; and, by diligently
inquiring, he at length discovered the required place.

After climbing up a long flight of stairs on the outside of an old wooden
building, he found himself before a door on which was written, "Charles
Ellis, carpenter and joiner." On opening it, he ushered himself into the
presence of an elderly <DW52> man, who was busily engaged in planing off
a plank. As soon as Mr. Winston saw his face fully, he recognized him as
his old friend. The hair had grown grey, and the form was also a trifle
bent, but he would have known him amongst a thousand. Springing forward, he
grasped his hand, exclaiming, "My dear old friend, don't you know me?" Mr.
Ellis shaded his eyes with his hand, and looked at him intently for a few
moments, but seemed no wiser from his scrutiny. The tears started to Mr.
Winston's eyes as he said, "Many a kind word I'm indebted to you for--I am
George Winston--don't you remember little George that used to live on the
Carter estate?"

"Why, bless me! it can't be that you are the little fellow that used to go
home with me sometimes to Savanah, and that was sold to go to New Orleans?"

"Yes, the same boy; I've been through a variety of changes since then."

"I should think you had," smilingly replied Mr. Ellis; "and, judging from
appearances, very favourable ones! Why, I took you for a white man--and you
are a white man, as far as complexion is concerned. Laws, child!" he
continued, laying his hand familiarly on Winston's shoulders, "how you have
changed--I should never have known you! The last time I saw you, you were
quite a shaver, running about in a long tow shirt, and regarding a hat and
shoes as articles of luxury far beyond your reach. And now," said Mr.
Ellis, gazing at him with admiring eyes, "just to look at you! Why, you are
as fine a looking man as one would wish to see in a day's travel. I've
often thought of you. It was only the other day I was talking to my wife,
and wondering what had become of you. She, although a great deal older than
your cousin Emily, used to be a sort of playmate of hers. Poor Emily! we
heard she was sold at public sale in Savanah--did you ever learn what
became of her?" "Oh, yes; I saw her about two months since, when on my
way from New Orleans. You remember old Colonel Garie? Well, his son bought
her, and is living with her. They have two children--she is very happy. I
really love him; he is the most kind and affectionate fellow in the world;
there is nothing he would not do to make her happy. Emily will be so
delighted to know that I have seen your wife--but who is Mrs. Ellis?--any
one that I know?"

"I do not know that you are acquainted with her, but you should remember
her mother, old Nanny Tobert, as she was called; she kept a little
confectionery--almost every one in Savanah knew her."

"I can't say I do," replied Winston, reflectively.

"She came here," continued Mr. Ellis, "some years ago, and died soon after
her arrival. Her daughter went to live with the Thomases, an old
Philadelphia family, and it was from their house I married her."

"Thomases?" repeated Mr. Winston; "that is where I saw your boy--he is the
image of you."

"And how came you there?" asked Ellis, with a look of surprise.

"In the most natural manner possible. I was invited there to dinner
yesterday--the bright face of your boy attracted my attention--so I
inquired his name, and that led to the discovery of yourself."

"And do the Thomases know you are a <DW52> man?" asked Mr. Ellis, almost
speechless with astonishment.

"I rather think not," laughingly rejoined Mr. Winston.

"It is a great risk you run to be passing for white in that way," said Mr.
Ellis, with a grave look. "But how did you manage to get introduced to that
set? They are our very first people."

"It is a long story," was Winston's reply; and he then, as briefly as he
could, related all that had occurred to himself since they last met. "And
now," continued he, as he finished his recital, "I want to know all about
you and your family; and I also want to see something of the <DW52>
people. Since I've been in the North I've met none but whites. I'm not
going to return to New Orleans to remain. I'm here in search of a home. I
wish to find some place to settle down in for life, where I shall not
labour under as many disadvantages as I must struggle against in the
South."

"One thing I must tell you," rejoined Mr. Ellis; "if you should settle down
here, you'll have to be either one thing or other--white or .
Either you must live exclusively amongst <DW52> people, or go to the
whites and remain with them. But to do the latter, you must bear in mind
that it must never be known that you have a drop of African blood in your
veins, or you would be shunned as if you were a pestilence; no matter how
fair in complexion or how white you may be."

"I have not as yet decided on trying the experiment, and I hardly think it
probable I shall," rejoined Winston. As he said this he took out his watch,
and was astonished to find how very long his visit had been. He therefore
gave his hand to Mr. Ellis, and promised to return at six o'clock and
accompany him home to visit his family.

As he was leaving the shop, Mr. Ellis remarked: "George, you have not said
a word respecting your mother." His face flushed, and the tears started in
his eyes, as he replied, in a broken voice, "She's dead! Only think, Ellis,
she died within a stone's throw of me, and I searching for her all the
while. I never speak of it unless compelled; it is too harrowing. It was a
great trial to me; it almost broke my heart to think that she perished
miserably so near me, whilst I was in the enjoyment of every luxury. Oh, if
she could only have lived to see me as I am now!" continued he; "but He
ordered it otherwise, and we must bow. 'Twas God's will it should be so.
Good bye till evening. I shall see you again at six."

Great was the surprise of Mrs. Ellis and her daughters on learning from Mr.
Ellis, when he came home to dinner, of the events of the morning; and
great was the agitation caused by the announcement of the fact, that his
friend was to be their guest in the evening.

Mrs. Ellis proposed inviting some of their acquaintances to meet him; but
to this project her husband objected, saying he wanted to have a quiet
evening with him, and to talk over old times; and that persons who were
entire strangers to him would only be a restraint upon them.

Caddy seemed quite put out by the announcement of the intended visit. She
declared that nothing was fit to be seen, that the house was in a state of
disorder shocking to behold, and that there was scarce a place in it fit to
sit down in; and she forthwith began to prepare for an afternoon's vigorous
scrubbing and cleaning.

"Just let things remain as they are, will you, Caddy dear," said her
father. "Please be quiet until I get out of the house," he continued, as
she began to make unmistakeable demonstrations towards raising a dust. "In
a few moments you shall have the house to yourself, only give me time to
finish my dinner in peace."

Esther, her mother, and their sewing were summarily banished to an upstairs
room, whilst Caddy took undivided possession of the little parlour, which
she soon brought into an astonishing state of cleanliness. The ornaments
were arranged at exact distances from the corners of the mantelpiece, the
looking-glass was polished, until it appeared to be without spot or
blemish, and its gilt frame was newly adorned with cut paper to protect it
from the flies. The best china was brought out, carefully dusted, and set
upon the waiter, and all things within doors placed in a state of
forwardness to receive their expected guest. The door-steps were, however,
not as white and clean as they might be, and that circumstance pressed upon
Caddy's mind. She therefore determined to give them a hasty wipe before
retiring to dress for the evening.

Having done this, and dressed herself to her satisfaction, she came down
stairs to prepare the refreshments for tea. In doing this, she continually
found herself exposing her new silk dress to great risks. She therefore
donned an old petticoat over her skirt, and tied an old silk handkerchief
over her head to protect her hair from flying particles of dust; and thus
arrayed she passed the time in a state of great excitement, frequently
looking out of the window to see if her father and their guest were
approaching.

In one of these excursions, she, to her intense indignation, found a beggar
boy endeavouring to draw, with a piece of charcoal, an illustration of a
horse-race upon her so recently cleaned door-steps.

"You young villain," she almost screamed, "go away from there. How dare you
make those marks upon the steps? Go off at once, or I'll give you to a
constable." To these behests the daring young gentleman only returned a
contemptuous laugh, and put his thumb to his nose in the most provoking
manner. "Ain't you going?" continued the irate Caddy, almost choked with
wrath at the sight of the steps, over which she had so recently toiled,
scored in every direction with black marks.

"Just wait till I come down, I'll give it to you, you audacious villain,
you," she cried, as she closed the window; "I'll see if I can't move you!"
Caddy hastily seized a broom, and descended the stairs with the intention
of inflicting summary vengeance upon the dirty delinquent who had so rashly
made himself liable to her wrath. Stealing softly down the alley beside the
house, she sprang suddenly forward, and brought the broom with all her
energy down upon the head of Mr. Winston, who was standing on the place
just left by the beggar. She struck with such force as to completely crush
his hat down over his eyes, and was about to repeat the blow, when her
father caught her arm, and she became aware of the awful mistake she had
made.

"Why, my child!" exclaimed her father, "what on earth, is the matter with
you, have you lost your senses?" and as he spoke, he held her at arm's
length from him to get a better look at her. "What are you dressed up in
this style for?" he continued, as he surveyed her from head to foot; and
then bursting into a loud laugh at her comical appearance, he released her,
and she made the quickest possible retreat into the house by the way she
came out.

Bushing breathless upstairs, she exclaimed, "Oh, mother, mother, I've done
it now! They've come, and I've beat him over the head with a broom!"

"Beat whom over the head with a broom?" asked Mrs. Ellis.

"Oh, mother, I'm so ashamed, I don't know what to do with myself. I struck
Mr. Winston with a broom. Mr. Winston, the gentleman father has brought
home."

"I really believe the child is crazy," said Mrs. Ellis, surveying the
chagrined girl. "Beat Mr. Winston over the head with a broom! how came you
to do it?"

"Oh, mother, I made a great mistake; I thought he was a beggar."

"He must be a very different looking person from what we have been led to
expect," here interrupted Esther. "I understood father to say that he was
very gentlemanlike in appearance."

"So he is," replied Caddy.

"But you just said you took him for a beggar?" replied her mother.

"Oh, don't bother me, don't bother me! my head is all turned upside down.
Do, Esther, go down and let them in--hear how furiously father is knocking!
Oh, go--do go!"

Esther quickly descended and opened the door for Winston and her father;
and whilst the former was having the dust removed and his hat straightened,
Mrs. Ellis came down and was introduced by her husband. She laughingly
apologized for the ludicrous mistake Caddy had made, which afforded great
amusement to all parties, and divers were the jokes perpetrated at her
expense during the remainder of the evening. Her equanimity having been
restored by Winston's assurances that he rather enjoyed the joke than
otherwise--and an opportunity having been afforded her to obliterate the
obnoxious marks from the door-steps--she exhibited great activity in
forwarding all the arrangements for tea.

They sat a long while round the table--much time that, under ordinary
circumstances, would have been given to the demolition of the food before
them, being occupied by the elders of the party in inquiries after mutual
friends, and in relating the many incidents that had occurred since they
last met.

Tea being at length finished, and the things cleared away, Mrs. Ellis gave
the girls permission to go out. "Where are you going?" asked their father.

"To the library company's room--to-night is their last lecture."

"I thought," said Winston, "that <DW52> persons were excluded from such
places. I certainly have been told so several times."

"It is quite true," replied Mr. Ellis; "at the lectures of the white
library societies a <DW52> person would no more be permitted to enter
than a donkey or a rattle-snake. This association they speak of is entirely
composed of people of colour. They have a fine library, a debating club,
chemical apparatus, collections of minerals, &c. They have been having a
course of lectures delivered before them this winter, and to-night is the
last of the course."

"Wouldn't you like to go, Mr. Winston?" asked Mrs. Ellis, who had a
mother's desire to secure so fine an escort for her daughters.

"No, no--don't, George," quickly interposed Mr. Ellis; "I am selfish enough
to want you entirely to myself to-night. The girls will find beaux enough,
I'll warrant you." At this request the girls did not seem greatly pleased,
and Miss Caddy, who already, in imagination, had excited the envy of all
her female friends by the grand _entree_ she was to make at the Lyceum,
leaning on the arm of Winston, gave her father a by no means affectionate
look, and tying her bonnet-strings with a hasty jerk, started out in
company with her sister.

"You appear to be very comfortable here, Ellis," said Mr. Winston, looking
round the apartment. "If I am not too inquisitive--what rent do you pay for
this house?"

"It's mine!" replied Ellis, with an air of satisfaction; "house, ground,
and all, bought and paid for since I settled here."

"Why, you are getting on well! I suppose," remarked Winston, "that you are
much better off than the majority of your  friends. From all I can
learn, the free <DW52> people in the Northern cities are very badly off.
I've been frequently told that they suffer dreadfully from want and
privations of various kinds."

"Oh, I see you have been swallowing the usual dose that is poured down
Southern throats by those Northern <DW64>-haters, who seem to think it a
duty they owe the South to tell all manner of infamous lies upon us free
<DW52> people. I really get so indignant and provoked sometimes, that I
scarcely know what to do with myself. Badly off, and in want, indeed! Why,
my dear sir, we not only support our own poor, but assist the whites to
support theirs, and enemies are continually filling the public ear with the
most distressing tales of our destitution! Only the other day the
Colonization Society had the assurance to present a petition to the
legislature of this State, asking for an appropriation to assist them in
sending us all to Africa, that we might no longer remain a burthen upon the
State--and they came very near getting it, too; had it not been for the
timely assistance of young Denbigh, the son of Judge Denbigh, they would
have succeeded, such was the gross ignorance that prevailed respecting our
real condition, amongst the members of the legislature. He moved a
postponement of the vote until he could have time to bring forward facts to
support the ground that he had assumed in opposition to the appropriation
being made. It was granted; and, in a speech that does him honour, he
brought forward facts that proved us to be in a much superior condition to
that in which our imaginative enemies had described us. Ay! he did more--he
proved us to be in advance of the whites in wealth and general
intelligence: for whilst it was one in fifteen amongst the whites unable to
read and write, it was but one in eighteen amongst the  (I won't
pretend to be correct about the figures, but that was about the relative
proportions); and also, that we paid, in the shape of taxes upon our real
estate, more than our proportion for the support of paupers, insane,
convicts, &c."

"Well," said the astonished Winston, "that is turning the tables
completely. You must take me to visit amongst the <DW52> people; I want
to see as much of them as possible during my stay."

"I'll do what I can for you, George. I am unable to spare you much time
just at present, but I'll put you in the hands of one who has abundance of
it at his disposal--I will call with you and introduce you to Walters."

"Who is Walters?" asked Mr. Winston.

"A friend of mine--a dealer in real estate."

"Oh, then he is a white man?"

"Not by any means," laughingly replied Mr. Ellis. "He is as black as a man
can conveniently be. He is very wealthy; some say that he is worth half a
million of dollars. He owns, to my certain knowledge, one hundred brick
houses. I met him the other day in a towering rage: it appears, that he
owns ten thousand dollars' worth of stock, in a railroad extending from
this to a neighbouring city. Having occasion to travel in it for some
little distance, he got into the first-class cars; the conductor, seeing
him there, ordered him out--he refused to go, and stated that he was a
shareholder. The conductor replied, that he did not care how much stock he
owned, he was a <DW65>, and that no <DW65> should ride in those cars; so he
called help, and after a great deal of trouble they succeeded in ejecting
him." "And he a stockholder! It was outrageous," exclaimed Winston. "And
was there no redress?"

"No, none, practically. He would have been obliged to institute a suit
against the company; and, as public opinion now is, it would be impossible
for him to obtain a verdict in his favour."

The next day Winston was introduced to Mr. Walters, who expressed great
pleasure in making his acquaintance, and spent a week in showing him
everything of any interest connected with <DW52> people.

Winston was greatly delighted with the acquaintances he made; and the
kindness and hospitality with which he was received made a most agreeable
impression upon him.

It was during this period that he wrote the glowing letters to Mr. and Mrs.
Garie, the effects of which will be discerned in the next chapter.



CHAPTER V.

The Garies decide on a Change.


We must now return to the Garies, whom we left listening to Mr. Winston's
description of what he saw in Philadelphia, and we need not add anything
respecting it to what the reader has already gathered from the last
chapter; our object being now to describe the effect his narrative
produced.

On the evening succeeding the departure of Winston for New Orleans, Mr. and
Mrs. Garie were seated in a little arbour at a short distance from the
house, and which commanded a magnificent prospect up and down the river. It
was overshadowed by tall trees, from the topmost branches of which depended
large bunches of Georgian moss, swayed to and fro by the soft spring breeze
that came gently sweeping down the long avenue of magnolias, laden with the
sweet breath of the flowers with which the trees were covered.

A climbing rose and Cape jessamine had almost covered the arbour, and their
intermingled blossoms, contrasting with the rich brown colour of the
branches of which it was constructed, gave it an exceedingly beautiful and
picturesque appearance.

This arbour was their favourite resort in the afternoons of summer, as they
could see from it the sun go down behind the low hills opposite, casting
his gleams of golden light upon the tops of the trees that crowned their
summits. Northward, where the chain of hills was broken, the waters of the
river would be brilliant with waves of gold long after the other parts of
it were shrouded in the gloom of twilight. Mr. and Mrs. Garie sat looking
at the children, who were scampering about the garden in pursuit of a pet
rabbit which had escaped, and seemed determined not to be caught upon any
pretence whatever.

"Are they not beautiful?" said Mr. Garie, with pride, as they bounded past
him. "There are not two prettier children in all Georgia. You don't seem
half proud enough of them," he continued, looking down upon his wife
affectionately.

Mrs. Garie, who was half reclining on the seat, and leaning her head upon
his shoulder, replied, "Oh, yes, I am, Garie; I'm sure I love them
dearly--oh, so dearly!" continued she, fervently--"and I only wish"--here
she paused, as if she felt she had been going to say something that had
better remain unspoken.

"You only wish what, dear? You were going to say something," rejoined her
husband. "Come, out with it, and let me hear what it was."

"Oh, Garie, it was nothing of any consequence."

"Consequence or no consequence, let me hear what it was, dear."

"Well, as you insist on hearing it, I was about to say that I wish they
were not little slaves."

"Oh, Em! Em!" exclaimed he, reproachfully, "how can you speak in that
manner? I thought, dear, that you regarded me in any other light than that
of a master. What have I done to revive the recollection that any such
relation existed between us? Am I not always kind and affectionate? Did you
ever have a wish ungratified for a single day, if it was in my power to
compass it? or have I ever been harsh or neglectful?"

"Oh, no, dear, no--forgive me, Garie--do, pray, forgive me--you are
kindness itself--believe me, I did not think to hurt your feelings by
saying what I did. I know you do not treat me or them as though we were
slaves. But I cannot help feeling that we are such--and it makes me very
sad and unhappy sometimes. If anything should happen that you should be
taken away suddenly, think what would be our fate. Heirs would spring up
from somewhere, and we might be sold and separated for ever. Respecting
myself I might be indifferent, but regarding the children I cannot feel
so."

"Tut, tut, Em! don't talk so gloomily. Do you know of any one, now, who has
been hired to put me to death?" said he, smiling.

"Don't talk so, dear; remember, 'In the midst of life we are in death.' It
was only this morning I learned that Celeste--you remember Celeste, don't
you?--I cannot recall her last name."

"No, dear, I really can't say that I do remember whom you refer to."

"I can bring her to your recollection, I think," continued she. "One
afternoon last fall we were riding together on the Augusta-road, when you
stopped to admire a very neat cottage, before the door of which two pretty
children were playing."

"Oh, yes, I remember something about it--I admired the children so
excessively that you became quite jealous."

"I don't remember that part of it," she continued. "But let me tell you my
story. Last week the father of the children started for Washington; the
cars ran off the track, and were precipitated down a high embankment, and
he and some others were killed. Since his death it has been discovered that
all his property was heavily mortgaged to old MacTurk, the worst man in the
whole of Savannah; and he has taken possession of the place, and thrown her
and the children into the slave-pen, from which they will be sold to the
highest bidder at a sheriff's sale. Who can say that a similar fate may
never be mine? These things press upon my spirit, and make me so gloomy and
melancholy at times, that I wish it were possible to shun even myself.
Lately, more than ever, have I felt disposed to beg you to break up here,
and move off to some foreign country where there is no such thing as
slavery. I have often thought how delightful it would be for us all to be
living in that beautiful Italy you have so often described to me--or in
France either. You said you liked both those places--why not live in one of
them?"

"No, no, Emily; I love America too much to ever think of living anywhere
else. I am much too thorough a democrat ever to swear allegiance to a king.
No, no--that would never do--give me a free country."

"That is just what I say," rejoined Mrs. Garie; "that is exactly what I
want; that is why I should like to get away from here, because this is
_not_ a free country--God knows it is not!"

"Oh, you little traitor! How severely you talk, abusing your native land in
such shocking style, it's really painful to hear you," said Mr. Garie in a
jocular tone.

"Oh, love," rejoined she, "don't joke, it's not a subject for jesting. It
is heavier upon my heart than you dream of. Wouldn't you like to live in
the free States? There is nothing particular to keep you here, and only
think how much better it would be for the children: and Garie," she
continued in a lower tone, nestling close to him as she spoke, and drawing
his head towards her, "I think I am going to--" and she whispered some
words in his ear, and as she finished she shook her head, and her long
curls fell down in clusters over her face.

Mr. Garie put the curls aside, and kissing her fondly, asked, "How long
have you known it, dear?"

"Not long, not very long," she replied. "And I have such a yearning that it
should be born a free child. I do want that the first air it breathes
should be that of freedom. It will kill me to have another child born here!
its infant smiles would only be a reproach to me. Oh," continued she, in a
tone of deep feeling, "it is a fearful thing to give birth to an inheritor
of chains;" and she shuddered as she laid her head on her husband's bosom.

Mr. Garie's brow grew thoughtful, and a pause in the conversation ensued.
The sun had long since gone down, and here and there the stars were
beginning to show their twinkling light. The moon, which had meanwhile been
creeping higher and higher in the blue expanse above, now began to shed her
pale, misty beams on the river below, the tiny waves of which broke in
little circlets of silver on the shore almost at their feet.

Mr. Garie was revolving in his mind the conversation he had so recently
held with Mr. Winston respecting the free States. It had been suggested by
him that the children should be sent to the North to be educated, but he
had dismissed the notion, well knowing that the mother would be
heart-broken at the idea of parting with her darlings. Until now, the
thought of going to reside in the North had never been presented for his
consideration. He was a Southerner in almost all his feelings, and had
never had a scruple respecting the ownership of slaves. But now the fact
that he was the master as well as the father of his children, and that
whilst he resided where he did it was out of his power to manumit them;
that in the event of his death they might be seized and sold by his heirs,
whoever they might be, sent a thrill of horror through him. He had known
all this before, but it had never stood out in such bold relief until now.

"What are you thinking of, Garie?" asked his wife, looking up into his
face. "I hope I have not vexed you by what I've said."

"Oh, no, dear, not at all. I was only thinking whether you would be any
happier if I acceded to your wishes and removed to the North. Here you live
in good style--you have a luxurious home, troops of servants to wait upon
you, a carriage at your disposal. In fact, everything for which you express
a desire."

"I know all that, Garie, and what I am about to say may seem ungrateful,
but believe me, dear, I do not mean it to be so. I had much rather live on
crusts and wear the coarsest clothes, and work night and day to earn them,
than live here in luxury, wearing gilded chains. Carriages and fine
clothes cannot create happiness. I have every physical comfort, and yet my
heart is often heavy--oh, so very heavy; I know I am envied by many for my
fine establishment; yet how joyfully would I give it all up and accept the
meanest living for the children's freedom--and your love."

"But, Emily, granted we should remove to the North, you would find
annoyances there as well as here. There is a great deal of prejudice
existing there against people of colour, which, often exposes them to great
inconveniences."

"Yes, dear, I know all that; I should expect that. But then on the other
hand, remember what George said respecting the <DW52> people themselves;
what a pleasant social circle they form, and how intelligent many of them
are! Oh, Garie, how I have longed for friends!--we have visitors now and
then, but none that I can call friends. The gentlemen who come to see you
occasionally are polite to me, but, under existing circumstances, I feel
that they cannot entertain for me the respect I think I deserve. I know
they look down upon and despise me because I'm a <DW52> woman. Then there
would be another advantage; I should have some female society--here I have
none. The white ladies of the neighbourhood will not associate with me,
although I am better educated, thanks to your care, than many of them, so
it is only on rare occasions, when I can coax some of our more cultivated
 acquaintances from Savannah to pay us a short visit, that I have
any female society, and no woman can be happy without it. I have no
parents, nor yet have you. We have nothing we greatly love to leave
behind--no strong ties to break, and in consequence would be subjected to
no great grief at leaving. If I only could persuade you to go!" said she,
imploringly.

"Well, Emily," replied he, in an undecided manner, "I'll think about it. I
love you so well, that I believe I should be willing to make any sacrifice
for your happiness. But it is getting damp and chilly, and you know," said
he, smiling, "you must be more than usually careful of yourself now."

The next evening, and many more besides, were spent in discussing the
proposed change. Many objections to it were stated, weighed carefully, and
finally set aside. Winston was written to and consulted, and though he
expressed some surprise at the proposal, gave it his decided approval. He
advised, at the same time, that the estate should not be sold, but be
placed in the hands of some trustworthy person, to be managed in Mr.
Garie's absence. Under the care of a first-rate overseer, it would not only
yield a handsome income, but should they be dissatisfied with their
Northern home, they would have the old place still in reserve; and with the
knowledge that they had this to fall back upon, they could try their
experiment of living in the North with their minds less harassed than they
otherwise would be respecting the result.

As Mr. Garie reflected more and more on the probable beneficial results of
the project, his original disinclination to it diminished, until he finally
determined on running the risk; and he felt fully rewarded for this
concession to his wife's wishes when he saw her recover all her wonted
serenity and sprightliness.

They were soon in all the bustle and confusion consequent on preparing for
a long journey. When Mr. Garie's determination to remove became known,
great consternation prevailed on the plantation, and dismal forebodings
were entertained by the slaves as to the result upon themselves.

Divers were the lamentations heard on all sides, when they were positively
convinced that "massa was gwine away for true;" but they were somewhat
pacified, when they learned that no one was to be sold, and that the place
would not change hands. For Mr. Garie was a very kind master, and his
slaves were as happy as slaves can be under any circumstances. Not much
less was the surprise which the contemplated change excited in the
neighbourhood, and it was commented on pretty freely by his acquaintances.
One of them--to whom he had in conversation partially opened his mind, and
explained that his intended removal grew out of anxiety respecting the
children, and his own desire that they might be where they could enjoy the
advantages of schools, &c.--sneered almost to his face at what he termed
his crack-brained notions; and subsequently, in relating to another person
the conversation he had had with Mr. Garie, spoke of him as "a soft-headed
fool, led by the nose by a yaller wench. Why can't he act," he said, "like
other men who happen to have half-white children--breed them up for the
market, and sell them?" and he might have added, "as I do," for he was well
known to have so acted by two or three of his own tawny offspring.

Mr. Garie, at the suggestion of Winston, wrote to Mr. Walters, to procure
them a small, but neat and comfortable house, in Philadelphia; which, when
procured, he was to commit to the care of Mr. and Mrs. Ellis, who were to
have it furnished and made ready to receive him and his family on their
arrival, as Mr. Garie desired to save his wife as much as possible, from
the care and anxiety attendant upon the arrangement of a new residence.

One most important matter, and on which depended the comfort and happiness
of his people, was the selection of a proper overseer. On its becoming
known that he required such a functionary, numbers of individuals who
aspired to that dignified and honourable office applied forthwith; and as
it was also known that the master was to be absent, and that, in
consequence, the party having it under his entire control, could cut and
slash without being interfered with, the value of the situation was greatly
enhanced. It had also another irresistible attraction, the absence of the
master would enable the overseer to engage in the customary picking and
stealing operations, with less chance of detection.

In consequence of all these advantages, there was no want of applicants.
Great bony New England men, traitors to the air they first breathed, came
anxiously forward to secure the prize. Mean, weasen-faced, poor white
Georgians, who were able to show testimonials of their having produced
large crops with a small number of hands, and who could tell to a fraction
how long a slave could be worked on a given quantity of corn, also put in
their claims for consideration. Short, thick-set men, with fierce faces,
who gloried in the fact that they had at various times killed refractory
<DW64>s, also presented themselves to undergo the necessary examination.

Mr. Garie sickened as he contemplated the motley mass of humanity that
presented itself with such eagerness for the attainment of so degrading an
office; and as he listened to their vulgar boastings and brutal language,
he blushed to think that such men were his countrymen.

Never until now had he had occasion for an overseer. He was not ambitious
of being known to produce the largest crop to the acre, and his hands had
never been driven to that shocking extent, so common with his neighbours.
He had been his own manager, assisted by an old <DW64>, called Ephraim--most
generally known as Eph, and to him had been entrusted the task of
immediately superintending the hands engaged in the cultivation of the
estate. This old man was a great favourite with the children, and Clarence,
who used to accompany him on his pony over the estate, regarded him as the
most wonderful and accomplished <DW52> gentleman in existence.

Eph was in a state of great perturbation at the anticipated change, and he
earnestly sought to be permitted to accompany them to the North. Mr. Garie
was, however, obliged to refuse his request, as he said, that it was
impossible that the place could get on without him.

An overseer being at last procured, whose appearance and manners betokened
a better heart than that of any who had yet applied for the situation, and
who was also highly-recommended for skill and honesty; nothing now remained
to prevent Mr. Garie's early departure.



CHAPTER VI.

Pleasant News.


One evening Mr. Ellis was reading the newspaper, and Mrs. Ellis and the
girls were busily engaged in sewing, when who should come in but Mr.
Walters, who had entered without ceremony at the front door, which had been
left open owing to the unusual heat of the weather.

"Here you all are, hard at work," exclaimed he, in his usual hearty manner,
accepting at the same time the chair offered to him by Esther.

"Come, now," continued he, "lay aside your work and newspapers, for I have
great news to communicate."

"Indeed, what is it?--what can it be?" cried the three females, almost in a
breath; "do let us hear it!"

"Oh," said Mr. Walters, in a provokingly slow tone, "I don't think I'll
tell you to-night; it may injure your rest; it will keep till to-morrow."

"Now, that is always the way with Mr. Walters," said Caddy, pettishly; "he
always rouses one's curiosity, and then refuses to gratify it;--he is so
tantalizing sometimes!"

"I'll tell you this much," said he, looking slily at Caddy, "it is
connected with a gentleman who had the misfortune to be taken for a beggar,
and who was beaten over the head in consequence by a young lady of my
acquaintance."

"Now, father has been telling you that," exclaimed Caddy, looking confused,
"and I don't thank him for it either; I hear of that everywhere I go--even
the Burtons know of it."

Mr. Walters now looked round the room, as though he missed some one, and
finally exclaimed, "Where is Charlie? I thought I missed somebody--where is
my boy?"

"We have put him out to live at Mrs. Thomas's," answered Mrs. Ellis,
hesitatingly, for she knew Mr. Walters' feelings respecting the common
practice of sending little <DW52> boys to service. "It is a very good
place for him," continued she--"a most excellent place."

"That is too bad," rejoined Mr. Walters--"too bad; it is a shame to make a
servant of a bright clever boy like that. Why, Ellis, man, how came you to
consent to his going? The boy should be at school. It really does seem to
me that you people who have good and smart boys take the very course to
ruin them. The worst thing you can do with a boy of his age is to put him
at service. Once get a boy into the habit of working for a stipend, and,
depend upon it, when he arrives at manhood, he will think that if he can
secure so much a month for the rest of his life he will be perfectly happy.
How would you like him to be a subservient old numskull, like that old
Robberts of theirs?"

Here Esther interrupted Mr. Walters by saying, "I am very glad to hear you
express yourself in that manner, Mr. Walters--very glad. Charlie is such a
bright, active little fellow; I hate to have him living there as a servant.
And he dislikes it, too, as much as any one can. I do wish mother would
take him away."

"Hush, Esther," said her mother, sharply; "your mother lived at service,
and no one ever thought the worse of her for it."

Esther looked abashed, and did not attempt to say anything farther.

"Now, look here, Ellen," said Mr. Walters. (He called her Ellen, for he had
been long intimate with the family.) "If you can't get on without the boy's
earning something, why don't you do as white women and men do? Do you ever
find them sending their boys out as servants? No; they rather give them a
stock of matches, blacking, newspapers, or apples, and start them out to
sell them. What is the result? The boy that learns to sell matches soon
learns to sell other things; he learns to make bargains; he becomes a small
trader, then a merchant, then a millionaire. Did you ever hear of any one
who had made a fortune at service? Where would I or Ellis have been had we
been hired out all our lives at so much a month? It begets a feeling of
dependence to place a boy in such a situation; and, rely upon it, if he
stays there long, it will spoil him for anything better all his days."

Mrs. Ellis was here compelled to add, by way of justifying herself, that it
was not their intention to let him remain there permanently; his father
only having given his consent for him to serve during the vacation.

"Well, don't let him stay there longer, I pray you," continued Walters. "A
great many white people think that we are only fit for servants, and I must
confess we do much to strengthen the opinion by permitting our children to
occupy such situations when we are not in circumstances to compel us to do
so. Mrs. Thomas may tell you that they respect their old servant Robberts
as much as they do your husband; but they don't, nevertheless--I don't
believe a word of it. It is impossible to have the same respect for the man
who cleans your boots, that you have for the man who plans and builds your
house."

"Oh, well, Walters," here interposed Mr. Ellis, "I don't intend the boy to
remain there, so don't get yourself into an unnecessary state of excitement
about it. Let us hear what this great news is that you have brought."

"Oh, I had almost forgotten it," laughingly replied Walters, at the same
time fumbling in his pocket for a letter, which he at length produced.
"Here," he continued, opening it, "is a letter I have received from a Mr.
Garie, enclosing another from our friend Winston. This Mr. Garie writes me
that he is coming to the North to settle, and desires me to procure them a
house; and he says also that he has so far presumed upon an early
acquaintance of his wife with Mrs. Ellis as to request that she will attend
to the furnishing of it. You are to purchase all that is necessary to make
them comfortable, and I am to foot the bills."

"What, you don't mean Emily Winston's husband?" said the astonished Mrs.
Ellis.

"I can't say whose husband it is, but from Winston's letter," replied Mr.
Walters, "I suppose he is the person alluded to."

"That is news," continued Mrs. Ellis. "Only think, she was a little mite of
a thing when I first knew her, and now she is a woman and the mother of two
children. How time does fly. I must be getting quite old," concluded she,
with a sigh.

"Nonsense, Ellen," remarked Mr. Ellis, "you look surprisingly young, you
are quite a girl yet. Why, it was only the other day I was asked if you
were one of my daughters."

Mrs. Ellis and the girls laughed at this sally of their father's, who asked
Mr. Walters if he had as yet any house in view.

"There is one of my houses in Winter-street that I think will just suit
them. The former tenants moved out about a week since. If I can call for
you to-morrow," he continued, turning to Mrs. Ellis, "will you accompany me
there to take a look at the premises?"

"It is a dreadful long walk," replied Mrs. Ellis. "How provoking it is to
think, that because persons are  they are not permitted to ride in
the omnibuses or other public conveyances! I do hope I shall live to see
the time when we shall be treated as civilized creatures should be."

"I suppose we shall be so treated when the Millennium comes," rejoined
Walters, "not before, I am afraid; and as we have no reason to anticipate
that it will arrive before to-morrow, we shall have to walk to
Winter-street, or take a private conveyance. At any rate, I shall call for
you to-morrow at ten. Good night--remember, at ten." "Well, this is a
strange piece of intelligence," exclaimed Mrs. Ellis, as the door closed
upon Mr. Walters. "I wonder what on earth can induce them to move on here.
Their place, I am told, is a perfect paradise. In old Colonel Garie's time
it was said to be the finest in Georgia. I wonder if he really intends to
live here permanently?"

"I can't say, my dear," replied Mrs. Ellis; "I am as much in the dark as
you are."

"Perhaps they are getting poor, Ellis, and are coming here because they can
live cheaper."

"Oh, no, wife; I don't think that can be the occasion of their removal. I
rather imagine he purposes emancipating his children. He cannot do it
legally in Georgia; and, you know, by bringing them here, and letting them
remain six months, they are free--so says the law of some of the Southern
States, and I think of Georgia."

The next morning Mrs. Ellis, Caddy, and Mr. Walters, started for
Winter-street; it was a very long walk, and when they arrived there, they
were all pretty well exhausted.

"Oh, dear," exclaimed Mrs. Ellis, after walking upstairs, "I am so tired,
and there is not a chair in the house. I must rest here," said she, seating
herself upon the stairs, and looking out upon the garden. "What a large
yard! if ours were only as large as this, what a delightful place I could
make of it! But there is no room to plant anything at our house, the garden
is so very small."

After they were all somewhat rested, they walked through the house and
surveyed the rooms, making some favourable commentary upon each.

"The house don't look as if it would want much cleaning," said Caddy, with
a tone of regret.

"So much the better, I should say," suggested Mr. Walters.

"Not as Caddy views the matter," rejoined Mrs. Ellis. "She is so fond of
house-cleaning, that I positively think she regards the cleanly state of
the premises as rather a disadvantage than otherwise." They were all,
however, very well pleased with the place; and on their way home they
settled which should be the best bedroom, and where the children should
sleep. They also calculated how much carpet and oilcloth would be
necessary, and what style of furniture should be put in the parlour.

"I think the letter said plain, neat furniture, and not too expensive, did
it not?" asked Mrs. Ellis.

"I think those were the very words," replied Caddy; "and, oh, mother, isn't
it nice to have the buying of so many pretty things? I do so love to shop!"

"Particularly with some one else's money," rejoined her mother, with a
smile.

"Yes, or one's own either, when one has it," continued Caddy; "I like to
spend money under any circumstances."

Thus in conversation relative to the house and its fixtures, they beguiled
the time until they reached their home. On arriving there, Mrs. Ellis found
Robberts awaiting her return with a very anxious countenance. He informed
her that Mrs. Thomas wished to see her immediately; that Charlie had been
giving that estimable lady a world of trouble; and that her presence was
necessary to set things to rights.

"What has he been doing?" asked Mrs. Ellis.

"Oh, lots of things! He and aunt Rachel don't get on together at all; and
last night he came nigh having the house burned down over our heads."

"Why, Robberts, you don't tell me so! What a trial boys are," sighed Mrs.
Ellis.

"He got on first rate for a week or two; but since that he has been raising
Satan. He and aunt Rachel had a regular brush yesterday, and he has
actually lamed the old woman to that extent she won't be able to work for a
week to come."

"Dear, dear, what am I to do?" said the perplexed Mrs. Ellis; "I can't go
up there immediately, I am too tired. Say to Mrs. Thomas I will come up
this evening. I wonder," concluded she, "what has come over the boy."
"Mother, you know how cross aunt Rachel is; I expect she has been
ill-treating him. He is so good-natured, that he never would behave
improperly to an old person unless goaded to it by some very harsh usage."

"That's the way--go on, Esther, find some excuse for your angel," said
Caddy, ironically. "Of course that lamb could not do anything wrong, and,
according to your judgment, he never does; but, I tell you, he is as bad as
any other boy--boys are boys. I expect he has been tracking over the floor
after aunt Rachel has scrubbed it, or has been doing something equally
provoking; he has been in mischief, depend upon it."

Things had gone on very well with Master Charlie for the first two weeks
after his introduction into the house of the fashionable descendant of the
worthy maker of leathern breeches. His intelligence, combined with the
quickness and good-humour with which he performed the duties assigned him,
quite won the regard of the venerable lady who presided over that
establishment. It is true she had detected him in several attempts upon the
peace and well-being of aunt Rachel's Tom; but with Tom she had little
sympathy, he having recently made several felonious descents upon her
stores of cream and custards. In fact, it was not highly probable, if any
of his schemes had resulted seriously to the spiteful _protege_ of aunt
Rachel, that Mrs. Thomas would have been overwhelmed with grief, or
disposed to inflict any severe punishment on the author of the catastrophe.

Unfortunately for Mrs. Thomas, Charlie, whilst going on an errand, had
fallen in with his ancient friend and adviser--in short, he had met no less
a person than the formerly all-sufficient Kinch. Great was the delight of
both parties at this unexpected meeting, and warm, indeed, was the exchange
of mutual congratulations on this auspicious event.

Kinch, in the excess of his delight, threw his hat several feet in the air;
nor did his feelings of pleasure undergo the least abatement when that
dilapidated portion of his costume fell into a bed of newly-mixed lime,
from which he rescued it with great difficulty and at no little personal
risk.

"Hallo! Kinch, old fellow, how are you?" cried Charlie; "I've been dying to
see you--why haven't you been up?"

"Why, I did come up often, but that old witch in the kitchen wouldn't let
me see you--she abused me scandalous. I wanted to pull her turban off and
throw it in the gutter. Why, she called me a dirty beggar, and threatened
to throw cold water on me if I didn't go away. Phew! ain't she an old
buster!"

"Why, I never knew you were there."

"Yes," continued Kinch; "and I saw you another time hung up behind the
carriage. I declare, Charlie, you looked so like a little monkey, dressed
up in that sky-blue coat and silver buttons, that I liked to have died
a-laughing at you;" and Kinch was so overcome by the recollection of the
event in question, that he was obliged to sit down upon a door-step to
recover himself.

"Oh, I do hate to wear this confounded livery!' said Charlie, dolefully--"
the boys scream 'Johnny Coat-tail' after me in the streets, and call me
'blue jay,' and 'blue <DW65>,' and lots of other names. I feel that all
that's wanting to make a complete monkey of me, is for some one to carry me
about on an organ."

"What do you wear it for, then?" asked Kinch.

"Because I can't help myself, that's the reason. The boys plague me to that
extent sometimes, that I feel like tearing the things into bits--but mother
says I must wear it. Kinch," concluded he, significantly, "something will
have to be done, I can't stand it."

"You remember what I told you about the wig, don't you?" asked Kinch; and,
on receiving an affirmative reply, he continued, "Just try that on, and see
how it goes--you'll find it'll work like a charm; it's a regular
footman-expatriator--just try it now; you'll see if it isn't the thing to
do the business for you." "I'm determined to be as bad as I can,"
rejoined Charlie; "I'm tired enough of staying there: that old aunt Rach is
a devil--I don't believe a saint from heaven could get on with her; I'm
expecting we'll have a pitched battle every day."

Beguiling the time with this and similar conversation, they reached the
house to which Charlie had been despatched with a note; after which, he
turned his steps homeward, still accompanied by the redoubtable Kinch.

As ill luck would have it, they passed some boys who were engaged in a game
of marbles, Charlie's favourite pastime, and, on Kinch's offering him the
necessary stock to commence play, he launched into the game, regardless of
the fact that the carriage was ordered for a drive within an hour, and that
he was expected to fill his accustomed place in the rear of that splendid
vehicle.

Once immersed in the game, time flew rapidly on. Mrs. Thomas awaited his
return until her patience was exhausted, when she started on her drive
without him. As they were going through a quiet street, to her horror and
surprise, prominent amidst a crowd of dirty boys, she discovered her little
footman, with his elegant blue livery covered with dirt and sketches in
white chalk; for, in the excitement of the game, Charlie had not observed
that Kinch was engaged in drawing on the back of his coat his favourite
illustration, to wit, a skull and cross-bones.

"Isn't that our Charlie?" said she to her daughter, surveying the crowd of
noisy boys through her eye-glass. "I really believe it is--that is
certainly our livery; pull the check-string, and stop the carriage."

Now Robberts had been pressed into service in consequence of Charlie's
absence, and was in no very good humour at being compelled to air his
rheumatic old shins behind the family-carriage. It can therefore be readily
imagined with what delight he recognized the delinquent footman amidst the
crowd, and with what alacrity he descended and pounced upon him just at the
most critical moment of the game. Clutching fast hold of him by the
collar of his coat, he dragged him to the carriage-window, and held him
before the astonished eyes of his indignant mistress, who lifted up her
hands in horror at the picture he presented. "Oh! you wretched boy," said
she, "just look at your clothes, all covered with chalk-marks and
bespattered with lime! Your livery is totally ruined--and your knees,
too--only look at them--the dirt is completely ground into them."

"But you haven't seed his back, marm," said Robberts; "he's got the
pirate's flag drawn on it. That boy'll go straight to the devil--I know he
will."

All this time Charlie, to his great discomfiture, was being shaken and
turned about by Robberts in the most unceremonious manner. Kinch, with his
usual audacity, was meanwhile industriously engaged in tracing on Robbert's
coat a similar picture to that he had so skilfully drawn on Charlie's, to
the great delight of a crowd of boys who stood admiring spectators of his
artistic performances. The coachman, however, observing this operation,
brought it to a rather hasty conclusion by a well directed cut of the whip
across the fingers of the daring young artist. This so enraged Kinch, that
in default of any other missile, he threw his lime-covered cap at the head
of the coachman; but, unfortunately for himself, the only result of his
exertions was the lodgment of his cap in the topmost bough of a
neighbouring tree, from whence it was rescued with great difficulty.

"What _shall_ we do with him?" asked Mrs. Thomas, in a despairing tone, as
she looked at Charlie.

"Put him with the coachman," suggested Mrs. Morton.

"He can't sit there, the horses are so restive, and the seat is only
constructed for one, and he would be in the coachman's way. I suppose he
must find room on behind with Robberts."

"I won't ride on the old carriage," cried Charlie, nerved by despair; "I
won't stay here nohow. I'm going home to my mother;" and as he spoke he
endeavoured to wrest himself from Robberts' grasp. "Put him in here,"
said Mrs. Thomas; "it would never do to let him go, for he will run home
with some distressing tale of ill-treatment; no, we must keep him until I
can send for his mother--put him in here."

Much to Mrs. Morton's disgust, Charlie was bundled by Robberts into the
bottom of the carriage, where he sat listening to the scolding of Mrs.
Thomas and her daughter until they arrived at home. He remained in disgrace
for several days after this adventure; but as Mrs. Thomas well knew that
she could not readily fill his place with another, she made a virtue of
necessity, and kindly looked over this first offence.

The situation was, however, growing more and more intolerable. Aunt Rachel
and he had daily skirmishes, in which he was very frequently worsted. He
had held several hurried consultations with Kinch through the grating of
the cellar window, and was greatly cheered and stimulated in the plans he
intended to pursue by the advice and sympathy of his devoted friend. Master
Kinch's efforts to console Charlie were not without great risk to himself,
as he had on two or three occasions narrowly escaped falling into the
clutches of Robberts, who well remembered Kinch's unprecedented attempt
upon the sacredness of his livery; and what the result might have been had
the latter fallen into his hands, we cannot contemplate without a shudder.

These conferences between Kinch and Charlie produced their natural effect,
and latterly it had been several times affirmed by aunt Rachel that, "Dat
air boy was gittin' 'tirely too high--gittin' bove hissef 'pletely--dat he
was gittin' more and more aggriwatin' every day--dat she itched to git at
him--dat she 'spected nothin' else but what she'd be 'bliged to take hold
o' him;" and she comported herself generally as if she was crazy for the
conflict which she saw must sooner or later occur.

Charlie, unable on these occasions to reply to her remarks without
precipitating a conflict for which he did not feel prepared, sought to
revenge himself upon the veteran Tom; and such was the state of his
feelings, that he bribed Kinch, with a large lump of sugar and the leg of a
turkey, to bring up his mother's Jerry, a fierce young cat, and they had
the satisfaction of shutting him up in the wood-house with the belligerent
Tom, who suffered a signal defeat at Jerry's claws, and was obliged to beat
a hasty retreat through the window, with a seriously damaged eye, and with
the fur torn off his back in numberless places. After this Charlie had the
pleasure of hearing aunt Rachel frequently bewail the condition of her
favourite, whose deplorable state she was inclined to ascribe to his
influence, though she was unable to bring it home to him in such a manner
as to insure his conviction.



CHAPTER VII.

Mrs. Thomas has her Troubles.


Mrs. Thomas was affected, as silly women sometimes are, with an intense
desire to be at the head of the _ton_. For this object she gave grand
dinners and large evening parties, to which were invited all who, being two
or three removes from the class whose members occupy the cobbler's bench or
the huckster's stall, felt themselves at liberty to look down upon the rest
of the world from the pinnacle on which they imagined themselves placed. At
these social gatherings the conversation never turned upon pedigree, and if
any of the guests chanced by accident to allude to their ancestors, they
spoke of them as members of the family, who, at an early period of their
lives, were engaged in mercantile pursuits.

At such dinners Mrs. Thomas would sit for hours, mumbling dishes that
disagreed with her; smiling at conversations carried on in villanous
French, of which language she did not understand a word; and admiring the
manners of addle-headed young men (who got tipsy at her evening parties),
because they had been to Europe, and were therefore considered quite men of
the world. These parties and dinners she could not be induced to forego,
although the late hours and fatigue consequent thereon would place her on
the sick-list for several days afterwards. As soon, however, as she
recovered sufficiently to resume her place at the table, she would console
herself with a dinner of boiled mutton and roasted turnips, as a slight
compensation for the unwholesome French dishes she had compelled herself to
swallow on the occasions before mentioned. Amongst the other modern
fashions she had adopted, was that of setting apart one morning of the week
for the reception of visitors; and she had mortally offended several of her
oldest friends by obstinately refusing to admit them at any other time. Two
or three difficulties had occurred with Robberts, in consequence of this
new arrangement, as he could not be brought to see the propriety of saying
to visitors that Mrs. Thomas was "not at home," when he knew she was at
that very moment upstairs peeping over the banisters. His obstinacy on this
point had induced her to try whether she could not train Charlie so as to
fit him for the important office of uttering the fashionable and truthless
"not at home" with unhesitating gravity and decorum; and, after a series of
mishaps, she at last believed her object was effected, until an unlucky
occurrence convinced her to the contrary.

Mrs. Thomas, during the days on which she did not receive company, would
have presented, to any one who might have had the honour to see that
venerable lady, an entirely different appearance to that which she assumed
on gala days. A white handkerchief supplied the place of the curling wig,
and the tasty French cap was replaced by a muslin one, decorated with an
immense border of ruffling, that flapped up and down over her silver
spectacles in the most comical manner possible. A short flannel gown and a
dimity petticoat of very antique pattern and scanty dimensions, completed
her costume. Thus attired, and provided with a duster, she would make
unexpected sallies into the various domestic departments, to see that
everything was being properly conducted, and that no mal-practices were
perpetrated at times when it was supposed she was elsewhere. She showed an
intuitive knowledge of all traps set to give intimation of her approach,
and would come upon aunt Rachel so stealthily as to induce her to declare,
"Dat old Mrs. Thomas put her more in mind of a ghost dan of any other libin
animal."

One morning, whilst attired in the manner described, Mrs. Thomas had been
particularly active in her excursions through the house, and had driven the
servants to their wits' ends by her frequent descents upon them at the most
unexpected times, thereby effectually depriving them of the short breathing
intervals they were anxious to enjoy. Charlie in particular had been
greatly harassed by her, and was sent flying from place to place until his
legs were nearly run off, as he expressed it. And so, when Lord Cutanrun,
who was travelling in America to give his estates in England an opportunity
to recuperate, presented his card, Charlie, in revenge, showed him into the
drawing-room, where he knew that Mrs. Thomas was busily engaged trimming an
oil-lamp. Belying on the explicit order she had given to say that she was
not at home, she did not even look up when his lordship entered, and as he
advanced towards her, she extended to him a basin of dirty water, saying,
"Here, take this." Receiving no response she looked up, and to her
astonishment and horror beheld, not Charlie, but Lord Cutanrun. In the
agitation consequent upon his unexpected appearance, she dropped the basin,
the contents of which, splashing in all directions, sadly discoloured his
lordship's light pants, and greatly damaged the elegant carpet.

"Oh! my lord," she exclaimed, "I didn't--couldn't--wouldn't--" and, unable
to ejaculate further, she fairly ran out of the apartment into the entry,
where she nearly fell over Charlie, who was enjoying the confusion his
conduct had created. "Oh! you limb!--you little wretch!" said she. "You
knew I was not at home!"

"Why, where are you now?" he asked, with the most provoking air of
innocence. "If you ain't in the house now, you never was."

"Never mind, sir," said she, "never mind. I'll settle with you for this.
Don't stand there grinning at me; go upstairs and tell Mrs. Morton to come
down immediately, and then get something to wipe up that water. O dear! my
beautiful carpet! And for a lord to see me in such a plight! Oh! it's
abominable! I'll give it to you, you scamp! You did it on purpose,"
continued the indignant Mrs. Thomas. "Don't deny it--I know you did. What
are you standing there for? Why don't you call Mrs. Morton?" she concluded,
as Charlie, chuckling over the result of his trick, walked leisurely
upstairs. "That boy will be the death of me," she afterwards said, on
relating the occurrence to her daughter. "Just to think, after all the
trouble I've had teaching him when to admit people and when not, that he
should serve me such a trick. I'm confident he did it purposely." Alas! for
poor Mrs. Thomas; this was only the first of a series of annoyances that
Charlie had in store, with which to test her patience and effect his own
deliverance.

A few days after, one of their grand dinners was to take place, and Charlie
had been revolving in his mind the possibility of his finding some
opportunity, on that occasion, to remove the old lady's wig; feeling
confident that, could he accomplish that feat, he would be permitted to
turn his back for ever on the mansion of Mrs. Thomas.

Never had Mrs. Thomas appeared more radiant than at this dinner. All the
guests whose attendance she had most desired were present, a new set of
china had lately arrived from Paris, and she was in full anticipation of a
grand triumph. Now, to Charlie had been assigned the important duty of
removing the cover from the soup-tureen which was placed before his
mistress, and the little rogue had settled upon that moment as the most
favourable for the execution of his purpose. He therefore secretly affixed
a nicely crooked pin to the elbow of his sleeve, and, as he lifted the
cover, adroitly hooked it into her cap, to which he knew the wig was
fastened, and in a twinkling had it off her head, and before she could
recover from her astonishment and lay down the soup-ladle he had left the
room. The guests stared and tittered at the grotesque figure she
presented,--her head being covered with short white hair, and her face as
red as a peony at the mortifying situation in which she was placed. As she
rose from her chair Charlie presented himself, and handed her the wig, with
an apology for the _accident_. In her haste to put it on, she turned it
wrong side foremost; the laughter of the guests could now no longer be
restrained, and in the midst of it Mrs. Thomas left the room. Encountering
Charlie as she went, she almost demolished him in her wrath; not ceasing to
belabour him till his outcries became so loud as to render her fearful that
he would alarm the guests; and she then retired to her room, where she
remained until the party broke up.

It was her custom, after these grand entertainments, to make nocturnal
surveys of the kitchen, to assure herself that none of the delicacies had
been secreted by the servants for their personal use and refreshment.
Charlie, aware of this, took his measures for an ample revenge for the
beating he had received at her hands. At night, when all the rest of the
family had retired, he hastily descended to the kitchen, and, by some
process known only to himself, imprisoned the cat in a stone jar that
always stood upon the dresser, and into which he was confident Mrs. Thomas
would peep. He then stationed himself upon the stairs, to watch the result.
He had not long to wait, for as soon as she thought the servants were
asleep, she came softly into the kitchen, and, after peering about in
various places, she at last lifted up the lid of the jar. Tom, tired of his
long confinement, sprang out, and, in so doing, knocked the lamp out of her
hand, the fluid from which ignited and ran over the floor.

"Murder!--Fire!--Watch!" screamed the thoroughly frightened old woman. "Oh,
help! help! fire!" At this terrible noise nearly every one in the household
was aroused, and hurried to the spot whence it proceeded. They found Mrs.
Thomas standing in the dark, with the lid of the jar in her hand, herself
the personification of terror. The carpet was badly burned in several
places, and the fragments of the lamp were scattered about the floor.

"What has happened?" exclaimed Mr. Morton, who was the first to enter the
kitchen. "What is all this frightful noise occasioned by?"

"Oh, there is a man in the house!" answered Mrs. Thomas, her teeth
chattering with fright. "There was a man in here--he has just sprung out,"
she continued, pointing to the bread-jar.

"Pooh, pooh--that's nonsense, madam," replied the son-in-law. "Why an
infant could not get in there, much less a man!"

"I tell you it was a man then," angrily responded Mrs. Thomas; "and he is
in the house somewhere now."

"Such absurdity!" muttered Mr. Morton; adding, in a louder tone: "Why, my
dear mamma, you've seen a mouse or something of the kind."

"Mouse, indeed!" interrupted the old lady. "Do you think I'm in my dotage,
and I don't know a man from a mouse?"

Just then the cat, whose back had got severely singed in the _melee_, set
up a most lamentable caterwauling; and, on being brought to light from the
depths of a closet into which he had flown, his appearance immediately
discovered the share he had had in the transaction.

"It must have been the cat," said Robberts. "Only look at his back--why
here the fur is singed off him! I'll bet anything," continued he, "that air
boy has had something to do with this--for it's a clear case that the cat
couldn't git into the jar, and then put the lid on hissef."

Tom's inability to accomplish this feat being most readily admitted on all
sides, inquiry was immediately made as to the whereabouts of Charlie; his
absence from the scene being rather considered as evidence of
participation, for, it was argued, if he had been unaware of what was to
transpire, the noise would have drawn him to the spot at once, as he was
always the first at hand in the event of any excitement. Robberts was
despatched to see if he was in his bed, and returned with the intelligence
that the bed had not even been opened. Search was immediately instituted,
and he was discovered in the closet at the foot of the stairs. He was
dragged forth, shaken, pummelled, and sent to bed, with the assurance that
his mother should be sent for in the morning, to take him home, and keep
him there. This being exactly the point to which he was desirous of
bringing matters, he went to bed, and passed a most agreeable night.

Aunt Rachel, being one of those sleepers that nothing short of an
earthquake can rouse until their customary time for awaking, had slept
soundly through the stirring events of the past night. She came down in the
morning in quite a placid state of mind, expecting to enjoy a day of rest,
as she had the night before sat up much beyond her usual time, to set
matters to rights after the confusion consequent on the dinner party. What
was her astonishment, therefore, on finding the kitchen she had left in a
state of perfect order and cleanliness, in a condition that resembled the
preparation for an annual house-cleaning.

"Lord, bless us!" she exclaimed, looking round; "What on yarth has
happened? I raly b'lieve dere's bin a fire in dis 'ere house, and I never
knowed a word of it. Why I might have bin burnt up in my own bed! Dere's de
lamp broke--carpet burnt--pots and skillets hauled out of the closet--ebery
ting turned upside down; why dere's bin a reg'lar 'sturbance down here,"
she continued, as she surveyed the apartment.

At this juncture, she espied Tom, who sat licking his paws before the fire,
and presenting so altered an appearance, from the events of the night, as
to have rendered him unrecognizable even by his best friend.

"Strange cat in de house! Making himself quite at home at dat," said aunt
Rachel, indignantly. Her wrath, already much excited, rose to the boiling
point at what she deemed a most daring invasion of her domain. She,
therefore, without ceremony, raised a broom, with which she belaboured the
astonished Tom, who ran frantically from under one chair to another till
he ensconced himself in a small closet, from which he pertinaciously
refused to be dislodged. "Won't come out of dere, won't you?" said she.
"I'll see if I can't make you den;" and poor Tom dodged behind pots and
kettles to avoid the blows which were aimed at him; at last, thoroughly
enraged by a hard knock on the back, he sprang fiercely into the face of
his tormentor, who, completely upset by the suddenness of his attack, fell
sprawling on the floor, screaming loudly for help. She was raised up by
Robberts, who came running to her assistance, and, on being questioned as
to the cause of her outcries, replied:--

"Dere's a strange cat in de house--wild cat too, I raly b'lieve;" and
spying Tom at that moment beneath the table, she made another dash at him
for a renewal of hostilities.

"Why that's Tom," exclaimed Robberts; "don't you know your own cat?"

"Oh," she replied, "dat ar isn't Tom now, is it? Why, what's the matter wid
him?"

Robberts then gave her a detailed account of the transactions of the
previous night, in which account the share Charlie had taken was greatly
enlarged and embellished; and the wrathful old woman was listening to the
conclusion when Charlie entered. Hardly had he got into the room, when,
without any preliminary discussion, aunt Rachel--to use her own
words--pitched into him to give him particular fits. Now Charlie, not being
disposed to receive "particular fits," made some efforts to return the hard
compliments that were being showered upon him, and the advice of Kinch
providentially occurring to him--respecting an attack upon the
understanding of his venerable antagonist--he brought his hard shoes down
with great force upon her pet corn, and by this _coup de pied_ completely
demolished her. With a loud scream she let him go; and sitting down upon
the floor, declared herself lamed for life, beyond the possibility of
recovery. At this stage of the proceedings, Robberts came to the rescue of
his aged coadjutor, and seized hold of Charlie, who forthwith commenced
so brisk an attack upon his rheumatic shins, as to cause him to beat a
hurried retreat, leaving Charlie sole master of the field. The noise that
these scuffles occasioned brought Mrs. Thomas into the kitchen, and Charlie
was marched off by her into an upstairs room, where he was kept in "durance
vile" until the arrival of his mother.

Mrs. Thomas had a strong liking for Charlie--not as a boy, but as a
footman. He was active and intelligent, and until quite recently, extremely
tractable and obedient; more than all, he was a very good-looking boy, and
when dressed in the Thomas livery, presented a highly-respectable
appearance. She therefore determined to be magnanimous--to look over past
events, and to show a Christian and forgiving spirit towards his
delinquencies. She sent for Mrs. Ellis, with the intention of desiring her
to use her maternal influence to induce him to apologize to aunt Rachel for
his assault upon her corns, which apology Mrs. Thomas was willing to
guarantee should be accepted; as for the indignities that had been
inflicted on herself, she thought it most politic to regard them in the
light of accidents, and to say as little about that part of the affair as
possible.

When Mrs. Ellis made her appearance on the day subsequent to the events
just narrated, Mrs. Thomas enlarged to her upon the serious damage that
aunt Rachel had received, and the urgent necessity that something should be
done to mollify that important individual. When Charlie was brought into
the presence of his mother and Mrs. Thomas, the latter informed him, that,
wicked as had been his conduct towards herself, she was willing, for his
mother's sake, to look over it; but that he must humble himself in dust and
ashes before the reigning sovereign of the culinary kingdom, who, making
the most of the injury inflicted on her toe, had declared herself unfit for
service, and was at that moment ensconced in a large easy-chair, listening
to the music of her favourite smoke-jack, whilst a temporary cook was
getting up the dinner, under her immediate supervision and direction.
"Charlie, I'm quite ashamed of you," said his mother, after listening to
Mrs. Thomas's lengthy statement. "What has come over you, child?"--Charlie
stood biting his nails, and looking very sullen, but vouchsafed them no
answer.--"Mrs. Thomas is so kind as to forgive you, and says she will look
over the whole affair, if you will beg aunt Rachel's pardon. Come, now,"
continued Mrs. Ellis, coaxingly, "do, that's a good boy."

"Yes, do," added Mrs. Thomas, "and I will buy you a handsome new suit of
livery."

This was too much for Charlie; the promise of another suit of the detested
livery quite overcame him, and he burst into tears.

"Why, what ails the boy? He's the most incomprehensible child I ever saw!
The idea of crying at the promise of a new suit of clothes!--any other
child would have been delighted," concluded Mrs. Thomas.

"I don't want your old button-covered uniform," said Charlie, "and I won't
wear it, neither! And as for aunt Rachel, I don't care how much she is
hurt--I'm only sorry I didn't smash her other toe; and I'll see her
skinned, and be skinned myself, before I'll ask her pardon!"

Both Mrs. Thomas and Charlie's mother stood aghast at this unexpected
declaration; and the result of a long conference, held by the two, was that
Charlie should be taken home, Mrs. Ellis being unable to withstand his
tears and entreaties.

As he passed through the kitchen on his way out, he made a face at aunt
Rachel, who, in return, threw at him one of the turnips she was peeling. It
missed the object for which it was intended, and came plump into the eye of
Robberts, giving to that respectable individual for some time thereafter
the appearance of a prize-fighter in livery.

Charlie started for home in the highest spirits, which, however, became
considerably lower on his discovering his mother's view of his late
exploits was very different from his own. Mrs. Ellis's fondness and
admiration of her son, although almost amounting to weakness, were yet
insufficient to prevent her from feeling that his conduct, even after
making due allowance for the provocation he had received, could not be
wholly excused as mere boyish impetuosity and love of mischievous fun. She
knew that his father would feel it his duty, not only to reprimand him, but
to inflict some chastisement; and this thought was the more painful to her
from the consciousness, that but for her own weak compliance with Mrs.
Thomas's request, her boy would not have been placed in circumstances which
his judgment and self-command had proved insufficient to carry him through.
The day, therefore, passed less agreeably than Charlie had anticipated; for
now that he was removed from the scene of his trials, he could not disguise
from himself that his behaviour under them had been very different from
what it ought to have been, and this had the salutary effect of bringing
him into a somewhat humbler frame of mind. When his father returned in the
evening, therefore, Charlie appeared so crest-fallen that even Caddy could
scarcely help commiserating him, especially as his subdued state during the
day had kept him from committing any of those offences against tidiness
which so frequently exasperated her. Mr. Ellis, though very strict on what
he thought points of duty, had much command of temper, and was an
affectionate father. He listened, therefore, with attention to the details
of Charlie's grievances, as well as of his misdemeanours, and some credit
is due to him for the unshaken gravity he preserved throughout. Although he
secretly acquitted his son of any really bad intention, he thought it
incumbent on him to make Charlie feel in some degree the evil consequences
of his unruly behaviour. After giving him a serious lecture, and pointing
out the impropriety of taking such measures to deliver himself from the
bondage in which his parents themselves had thought fit to place him,
without even appealing to them, he insisted on his making the apologies due
both to Mrs. Thomas and aunt Rachel (although he was fully aware that both
had only got their deserts); and, further, intimated that he would not be
reinstated in his parents' good graces until he had proved, by his good
conduct and docility, that he was really sorry for his misbehaviour. It was
a severe trial to Charlie to make these apologies; but he well knew that
what his father had decided upon must be done--so he made a virtue of
necessity, and, accompanied by his mother, on the following day performed
his penance with as good a grace as he was able; and, in consideration of
this submission, his father, when he came home in the evening, greeted him
with all his usual kindness, and the recollection of this unlucky affair
was at once banished from the family circle.



CHAPTER VIII.

Trouble in the Ellis Family.


Since the receipt of Mr. Garie's letter, Mrs. Ellis and Caddy had been
busily engaged in putting the house in a state of preparation for their
reception. Caddy, whilst superintending its decoration, felt herself in
Elysium. For the first time in her life she had the supreme satisfaction of
having two unfortunate house-cleaners entirely at her disposal;
consequently, she drove them about and worried them to an extent
unparalleled in any of their former experience. She sought for and
discovered on the windows (which they had fondly regarded as miracles of
cleanliness) sundry streaks and smears, and detected infinite small spots
of paint and whitewash on the newly-scrubbed floors. She followed them
upstairs and downstairs, and tormented them to that extent, that Charlie
gave it as his private opinion that he should not be in the least
surprised, on going up there, to find that the two old women had made away
with Caddy, and hidden her remains in the coal-bin. Whilst she was thus
engaged, to Charlie was assigned the duty of transporting to Winter-street
her diurnal portion of food, without a hearty share of which she found it
impossible to maintain herself in a state of efficiency; her labours in
chasing the women about the house being of a rather exhausting nature.

When he made the visits in question, Charlie was generally reconnoitred by
his sister from a window over the door, and was compelled to put his shoes
through a system of purification, devised by her for his especial benefit.
It consisted of three courses of scraper, and two of mat; this being
considered by her as strictly necessary to bring his shoes to such a state
of cleanliness as would entitle him to admission into the premises of which
she was the temporary mistress.

Charlie, on two or three occasions finding a window open, made stealthy
descents upon the premises without first having duly observed these
quarantine regulations; whereupon he was attacked by Caddy, who, with the
assistance of the minions under her command, so shook and pummelled him as
to cause his precipitate retreat through the same opening by which he had
entered, and that, too, in so short a space of time as to make the whole
manoeuvre appear to him in the light of a well-executed but involuntary
feat of ground and lofty tumbling. One afternoon he started with his
sister's dinner, consisting of a dish of which she was particularly fond,
and its arrival was therefore looked for with unusual anxiety. Charlie,
having gorged himself to an almost alarming extent, did not make the haste
that the case evidently demanded; and as he several times stopped to act as
umpire in disputed games of marbles (in the rules of which he was regarded
as an authority), he necessarily consumed a great deal of time on the way.

Caddy's patience was severely tried by the long delay, and her temper, at
no time the most amiable, gathered bitterness from the unprecedented length
of her fast. Therefore, when he at length appeared, walking leisurely up
Winter-street, swinging the kettle about in the most reckless manner, and
setting it down on the pavement to play leap-frog over the fire-plugs, her
wrath reached a point that boded no good to the young trifler.

Now, whilst Charlie had been giving his attention to the difficulties
growing out of the games of marbles, he did not observe that one of the
disputants was possessed of a tin kettle, in appearance very similar to his
own, by the side of which, in the excitement of the moment, he deposited
his own whilst giving a practical illustration of his view of the point
under consideration. Having accomplished this to his entire satisfaction,
he resumed what he supposed was his kettle, and went his way rejoicing.

Now, if Caddy Ellis had a fondness for one dish more than any other, it was
for haricot, with plenty of carrots; and knowing she was to have this for
her dinner, she, to use her own pointed expression, "had laid herself out
to have a good meal." She had even abstained from her customary lunch that
she might have an appetite worthy of the occasion; and accordingly, long
ere the dinner hour approached, she was hungry as a wolf. Notwithstanding
this fact, when Charlie made his appearance at the door, she insisted on
his going through all the accustomed forms with the mat and scraper before
entering the house; an act of self-sacrifice on her part entirely uncalled
for, as the day was remarkably fine, and Charlie's boots unusually clean.

He received two or three by no means gentle shoves and pokes as he entered,
which he bore with unusual indifference, making not the slightest effort at
retaliation, as was his usual practice. The fact is, Charlie was, as lions
are supposed to be, quite disinclined for a fight after a hearty meal, so
he followed Caddy upstairs to the second story. Here she had got up an
extempore dining-table, by placing a pasting board across two chairs.
Seating herself upon a stool, she jerked off the lid of the kettle, and, to
her horror and dismay, found not the favourite haricot, but a piece of
cheese-rind, a crust of dry bread, and a cold potatoe. Charlie, who was
amusing himself by examining the flowers in the new carpet, did not observe
the look of surprise and disgust that came over the countenance of his
sister, as she took out, piece by piece, the remains of some schoolboy's
repast.

"Look here," she at last burst forth, "do you call this _my_ dinner?"

"Yes," said Charlie, in a deliberate tone, "and a very good one too, I
should say; if you can't eat that dinner, you ought to starve; it's one of
mother's best haricots." "You don't call this cold potatoe and
cheese-rind haricot, do you?" asked Caddy, angrily.

At this Charlie looked up, and saw before her the refuse scraps, which she
had indignantly emptied upon the table. He could scarcely believe his eyes;
he got up and looked in the kettle, but found no haricot. "Well," said he,
with surprise, "if that don't beat me! I saw mother fill it with haricot
myself; I'm clean beat about it."

"Tell me what you've done with it, then," almost screamed the angry girl.

"I really don't know what has become of it," he answered, with a bewildered
air. "I saw--I saw--I--I--"

"You saw--you saw," replied the indignant Caddy, imitating his tone; and
taking up the kettle, she began to examine it more closely. "Why, this
isn't even our kettle; look at this lid. I'm sure it's not ours. You've
been stopping somewhere to play, and exchanged it with some other boy,
that's just what you've done."

Just then it occurred to Charlie that at the place where he had adjusted
the dispute about the marbles, he had observed in the hands of one of the
boys a kettle similar to his own; and it flashed across his mind that he
had then and there made the unfortunate exchange. He broke his suspicion to
Caddy in the gentlest manner, at the same time edging his way to the door
to escape the storm that he saw was brewing. The loss of her dinner--and of
such a dinner--so enraged the hungry girl, as to cause her to seize a brush
lying near and begin to belabour him without mercy. In his endeavour to
escape from her his foot was caught in the carpet, and he was violently
precipitated down the long flight of stairs. His screams brought the whole
party to his assistance; even Kinch, who was sitting on the step outside,
threw off his usual dread of Caddy, and rushed into the house. "Oh, take me
up," piteously cried Charlie; "oh, take me up, I'm almost killed." In
raising him, one of the old women took hold of his arm, which caused him to
scream again. "Don't touch my arm, please don't touch my arm; I'm sure it's
broke."

"No, no, it's not broke, only sprained, or a little twisted," said she;
and, seizing it as she spoke, she gave it a pull and a wrench, for the
purpose of making it all right again; at this Charlie's face turned deathly
pale, and he fainted outright.

"Run for a doctor," cried the now thoroughly-alarmed Caddy; "run for the
doctor! my brother's dead!" and bursting into tears, she exclaimed, "Oh,
I've killed my brother, I've killed my brother!"

"Don't make so much fuss, child," soothingly replied one of the old women:
"he's worth half a dozen dead folk yet. Lor bless you, child, he's only
fainted."

Water was procured and thrown in his face, and before Kinch returned with
the doctor, he was quite restored to consciousness.

"Don't cry, my little man," said the physician, as he took out his knife
and ripped up the sleeve of Charlie's coat. "Don't cry; let me examine your
arm." Stripping up the shirt-sleeve, he felt it carefully over, and shaking
his head (physicians always shake their heads) pronounced the arm broken,
and that, too, in an extremely bad place. At this information Charlie began
again to cry, and Caddy broke forth into such yells of despair as almost to
drive them distracted.

The physician kindly procured a carriage, and saw Charlie comfortably
placed therein; and held in the arms of Kinch, with the lamenting and
disheartened Caddy on the opposite seat, he was slowly driven home. The
house was quite thrown into confusion by their arrival under such
circumstances; Mrs. Ellis, for a wonder, did not faint, but proceeded at
once to do what was necessary. Mr. Ellis was sent for, and he immediately
despatched Kinch for Dr. Burdett, their family physician, who came without
a moment's delay. He examined Charlie's arm, and at first thought it would
be necessary to amputate it. At the mere mention of the word amputate,
Caddy set up such a series of lamentable howls as to cause her immediate
ejectment from the apartment. Dr. Burdett called in Dr. Diggs for a
consultation, and between them it was decided that an attempt should be
made to save the injured member. "Now, Charlie," said Dr. Burdett, "I'm
afraid we must hurt you, my boy--but if you have any desire to keep this
arm you must try to bear it."

"I'll bear anything to save my arm, doctor; I can't spare that," said he,
manfully. "I'll want it by-and-by to help take care of mother and the
girls."

"You're a brave little fellow," said Dr. Diggs, patting him on the head,
"so then we'll go at it at once."

"Stop," cried Charlie, "let mother put her arm round my neck so, and Es,
you hold the good hand. Now then, I'm all right--fire away!" and clenching
his lips hard, he waited for the doctor to commence the operation of
setting his arm. Charlie's mother tried to look as stoical as possible, but
the corners of her mouth would twitch, and there was a nervous trembling of
her under-lip; but she commanded herself, and only when Charlie gave a
slight groan of pain, stooped and kissed his forehead; and when she raised
her head again, there was a tear resting on the face of her son that was
not his own. Esther was the picture of despair, and she wept bitterly for
the misfortune which had befallen her pet brother; and when the operation
was over, refused to answer poor Caddy's questions respecting Charlie's
injuries, and scolded her with a warmth and volubility that was quite
surprising to them all.

"You must not be too hard on Caddy," remarked Mr. Ellis. "She feels bad
enough, I'll warrant you. It is a lesson that will not, I trust, be thrown
away upon her; it will teach her to command her temper in future."

Caddy was in truth quite crushed by the misfortune she had occasioned, and
fell into such a state of depression and apathy as to be scarcely heard
about the house; indeed, so subdued was she, that Kinch went in and out
without wiping his feet, and tracked the mud all over the stair-carpet, and
yet she uttered no word of remonstrance.

Poor little Charlie suffered much, and was in a high fever. The knocker was
tied up, the windows darkened, and all walked about the house with sad and
anxious countenances. Day after day the fever increased, until he grew
delirious, and raved in the most distressing manner. The unfortunate
haricot was still on his mind, and he was persecuted by men with
strange-shaped heads and carrot eyes. Sometimes he imagined himself pursued
by Caddy, and would cry in the most piteous manner to have her prevented
from beating him. Then his mind strayed off to the marble-ground, where he
would play imaginary games, and laugh over his success in such a wild and
frightful manner as to draw tears from the eyes of all around him. He was
greatly changed; the bright colour had fled from his cheek; his head had
been shaved, and he was thin and wan, and at times they were obliged to
watch him, and restrain him from tossing about, to the great peril of his
broken arm.

At last his situation became so critical that Dr. Burdett began to
entertain but slight hopes of his recovery; and one morning, in the
presence of Caddy, hinted as much to Mr. Ellis.

"Oh, doctor, doctor," exclaimed the distracted girl, "don't say that! oh,
try and save him! How could I live with the thought that I had killed my
brother! oh, I can't live a day if he dies! Will God ever forgive me? Oh,
what a wretch I have been! Oh, do think of something that will help him! He
_mustn't_ die, you _must_ save him!" and crying passionately, she threw
herself on the floor in an agony of grief. They did their best to pacify
her, but all their efforts were in vain, until Mr. Ellis suggested, that
since she could not control her feelings, she must be sent to stay with her
aunt, as her lamentations and outcries agitated her suffering brother and
made his condition worse. The idea of being excluded from the family circle
at such a moment had more effect on Caddy than all previous remonstrances.
She implored to have the sentence suspended for a time at least, that she
might try to exert more self-command; and Mr. Ellis, who really pitied her,
well knowing that her heart was not in fault, however reprehensible she was
in point of temper, consented; and Caddy's behaviour from that moment
proved the sincerity of her promises; and though she could not quite
restrain occasional outbursts of senseless lamentation, still, when she
felt such fits of despair coming on, she wisely retired to some remote
corner of the house, and did not re-appear till she had regained her
composure.

The crisis was at length over, and Charlie was pronounced out of danger. No
one was more elated by this announcement than our friend Kinch, who had, in
fact, grown quite ashy in his complexion from confinement and grief, and
was now thrown by this intelligence into the highest possible spirits.
Charlie, although faint and weak, was able to recognize his friends, and
derived great satisfaction from the various devices of Kinch to entertain
him. That young gentleman quite distinguished himself by the variety and
extent of his resources. He devised butting matches between himself and a
large gourd, which he suspended from the ceiling, and almost blinded
himself by his attempts to butt it sufficiently hard to cause it to rebound
to the utmost length of the string, and might have made an idiot of himself
for ever by his exertions, but for the timely interference of Mr. Ellis,
who put a final stop to this diversion. Then he dressed himself in a short
gown and nightcap, and made the pillow into a baby, and played the nurse
with it to such perfection, that Charlie felt obliged to applaud by
knocking with the knuckles of his best hand upon the head-board of his
bedstead. On the whole, he was so overjoyed as to be led to commit all
manner of eccentricities, and conducted himself generally in such a
ridiculous manner, that Charlie laughed himself into a state of
prostration, and Kinch was, in consequence, banished from the sick-room, to
be re-admitted only on giving his promise to abstain from being as _funny
as he could_ any more. After the lapse of a short time Charlie was
permitted to sit up, and held regular _levees_ of his schoolmates and
little friends. He declared it was quite a luxury to have a broken arm, as
it was a source of so much amusement. The old ladies brought him jellies
and blanc-mange, and he was petted and caressed to such an unparalleled
extent, as to cause his delighted mother to aver that she lived in great
fear of his being spoiled beyond remedy. At length he was permitted to come
downstairs and sit by the window for a few hours each day. Whilst thus
amusing himself one morning, a handsome carriage stopped before their
house, and from it descended a fat and benevolent-looking old lady, who
knocked at the door and rattled the latch as if she had been in the daily
habit of visiting there, and felt quite sure of a hearty welcome. She was
let in by Esther, and, on sitting down, asked if Mrs. Ellis was at home.
Whilst Esther was gone to summon her mother, the lady looked round the
room, and espying Charlie, said, "Oh, there you are--I'm glad to see you; I
hope you are improving."

"Yes, ma'am," politely replied Charlie, wondering all the time who their
visitor could be.

"You don't seem to remember me--you ought to do so; children seldom forget
any one who makes them a pleasant promise."

As she spoke, a glimmer of recollection shot across Charlie's mind, and he
exclaimed, "You are the lady who came to visit the school."

"Yes; and I promised you a book for your aptness, and," continued she,
taking from her reticule a splendidly-bound copy of "Robinson Crusoe,"
"here it is."

Mrs. Ellis, as soon as she was informed that a stranger lady was below,
left Caddy to superintend alone the whitewashing of Charlie's sick-room,
and having hastily donned another gown and a more tasty cap, descended to
see who the visitor could be.

"You must excuse my not rising," said Mrs. Bird, for that was the lady's
name; "it is rather a difficulty for me to get up and down often--so,"
continued she, with a smile, "you must excuse my seeming rudeness."

Mrs. Ellis answered, that any apology was entirely unnecessary, and begged
she would keep her seat. "I've come," said Mrs. Bird, "to pay your little
man a visit. I was so much pleased with the manner in which he recited his
exercises on the day of examination, that I promised him a book, and on
going to the school to present it, I heard of his unfortunate accident. He
looks very much changed--he has had a very severe time, I presume?"

"Yes, a very severe one. We had almost given him over, but it pleased God
to restore him," replied Mrs. Ellis, in a thankful tone. "He is very weak
yet," she continued, "and it will be a long time before he is entirely
recovered."

"Who is your physician?" asked Mrs. Bird.

"Doctor Burdett," was the reply; "he has been our physician for years, and
is a very kind friend of our family."

"And of mine, too," rejoined Mrs. Bird; "he visits my house every summer.
What does he think of the arm?" she asked.

"He thinks in time it will be as strong as ever, and recommends sending
Charlie into the country for the summer; but," said Mrs. Ellis, "we are
quite at a loss where to send him."

"Oh! let me take him," said Mrs. Bird--"I should be delighted to have him.
I've got a beautiful place--he can have a horse to ride, and there are wide
fields to scamper over! Only let me have him, and I'll guarantee to restore
him to health in a short time."

"You're very kind," replied Mrs. Ellis--"I'm afraid he would only be a
burthen to you--be a great deal of trouble, and be able to do but little
work."

"Work! Why, dear woman," replied Mrs. Bird, with some astonishment, "I
don't want him to work--I've plenty of servants; I only want him to enjoy
himself, and gather as much strength as possible. Come, make up your mind
to let him go with me, and I'll send him home as stout as I am."

At the bare idea of Charlie's being brought to such a state of obesity,
Kinch, who, during the interview, had been in the back part of the room,
making all manner of faces, was obliged to leave the apartment, to prevent
a serious explosion of laughter, and after their visitor had departed he
was found rolling about the floor in a tempest of mirth.

After considerable conversation relative to the project, Mrs. Bird took her
leave, promising to call soon again, and advising Mrs. Ellis to accept her
offer. Mrs. Ellis consulted Dr. Burdett, who pronounced it a most fortunate
circumstance, and said the boy could not be in better hands; and as Charlie
appeared nothing loth, it was decided he should go to Warmouth, to the
great grief of Kinch, who thought it a most unheard-of proceeding, and he
regarded Mrs. Bird thenceforth as his personal enemy, and a wilful
disturber of his peace.



CHAPTER IX.

Breaking up.


The time for the departure of the Garies having been fixed, all in the
house were soon engaged in the bustle of preparation. Boxes were packed
with books, pictures, and linen; plate and china were wrapped and swaddled,
to prevent breakage and bruises; carpets were taken up, and packed away;
curtains taken down, and looking-glasses covered. Only a small part of the
house was left in a furnished state for the use of the overseer, who was a
young bachelor, and did not require much space.

In superintending all these arrangements Mrs. Garie displayed great
activity; her former cheerfulness of manner had entirely returned, and Mr.
Garie often listened with delight to the quick pattering of her feet, as
she tripped lightly through the hall, and up and down the long stairs. The
birds that sang about the windows were not more cheerful than herself, and
when Mr. Garie heard her merry voice singing her lively songs, as in days
gone by, he experienced a feeling of satisfaction at the pleasant result of
his acquiescence in her wishes. He had consented to it as an act of justice
due to her and the children; there was no pleasure to himself growing out
of the intended change, beyond that of gratifying Emily, and securing
freedom to her and the children. He knew enough of the North to feel
convinced that he could not expect to live there openly with Emily, without
being exposed to ill-natured comments, and closing upon himself the doors
of many friends who had formerly received him with open arms. The virtuous
dignity of the Northerner would be shocked, not so much at his having
children by a woman of colour, but by his living with her in the midst of
them, and acknowledging her as his wife. In the community where he now
resided, such things were more common; the only point in which he differed
from many other Southern gentlemen in this matter was in his constancy to
Emily and the children, and the more than ordinary kindness and affection
with which he treated them. Mr. Garie had for many years led a very retired
life, receiving an occasional gentleman visitor; but this retirement had
been entirely voluntary, therefore by no means disagreeable; but in the new
home he had accepted, he felt that he might be shunned, and the reflection
was anything but agreeable. Moreover, he was about to leave a place
endeared to him by a thousand associations. Here he had passed the whole of
his life, except about four years spent in travelling through Europe and
America.

Mr. Garie was seated in a room where there were many things to recall days
long since departed. The desk at which he was writing was once his
father's, and he well remembered the methodical manner in which every
drawer was carefully kept; over it hung a full-length portrait of his
mother, and it seemed, as he gazed at it, that it was only yesterday that
she had taken his little hand in her own, and walked with him down the long
avenue of magnolias that were waving their flower-spangled branches in the
morning breeze, and loading it with fragrance. Near him was the table on
which her work-basket used to stand. He remembered how important he felt
when permitted to hold the skeins of silk for her to wind, and how he would
watch her stitch, stitch, hour after hour, at the screen that now stood
beside the fire-place; the colours were faded, but the recollection of the
pleasant smiles she would cast upon him from time to time, as she looked up
from her work, was as fresh in his memory as if it were but yesterday. Mr.
Garie was assorting and arranging the papers that the desk contained, when
he heard the rattle of wheels along the avenue, and looking out of the
window, he saw a carriage approaching.

The coachman was guiding his horses with one hand, and with the other he
was endeavouring to keep a large, old-fashioned trunk from falling from the
top. This was by no means an easy matter, as the horses appeared quite
restive, and fully required his undivided attention. The rather unsteady
motion of the carriage caused its inmate to put his head out of the window,
and Mr. Garie recognized his uncle John, who lived in the north-western
part of the state, on the borders of Alabama. He immediately left his desk,
and hastened to the door to receive him.

"This is an unexpected visit, but none the less pleasant on that account,"
said Mr. Garie, his face lighting up with surprise and pleasure as uncle
John alighted. "I had not the least expectation of being honoured by a
visit from you. What has brought you into this part of the country?
Business, of course? I can't conceive it possible that you should have
ventured so far from home, at this early season, for the mere purpose of
paying me a visit."

"You may take all the honour to yourself this time," smilingly replied
uncle John, "for I have come over for your especial benefit; and if I
accomplish the object of my journey, I shall consider the time anything but
thrown away."

"Let me take your coat; and, Eph, see you to that trunk," said Mr. Garie.
"You see everything is topsy-turvy with us, uncle John. We look like
moving, don't we?"

"Like that or an annual house-cleaning," he replied, as he picked his way
through rolls of carpet and matting, and between half-packed boxes; in
doing which, he had several narrow escapes from the nails that protruded
from them on all sides. "It's getting very warm; let me have something to
drink," said he, wiping his face as he took his seat; "a julep--plenty of
brandy and ice, and but little mint."

Eph, on receiving this order, departed in great haste in search of Mrs.
Garie, as he knew that, whilst concocting one julep, she might be
prevailed upon to mix another, and Eph had himself a warm liking for that
peculiar Southern mixture, which liking he never lost any opportunity to
gratify.

Emily hurried downstairs, on hearing of the arrival of uncle John, for he
was regarded by her as a friend. She had always received from him marked
kindness and respect, and upon the arrival of Mr. Garie's visitors, there
was none she received with as much pleasure. Quickly mixing the drink, she
carried it into the room where he and her husband were sitting. She was
warmly greeted by the kind-hearted old man, who, in reply to her question
if he had come to make them a farewell visit, said he hoped not: he trusted
to make them many more in the same place.

"I'm afraid you won't have an opportunity," she replied. "In less than a
week we expect to be on our way to New York.--I must go," continued she,
"and have a room prepared for you, and hunt up the children. You'll
scarcely know them, they have grown so much since you were here. I'll soon
send them," and she hurried off to make uncle John's room comfortable.

"I was never more surprised in my life," said the old gentleman, depositing
the glass upon the table, after draining it of its contents--"never more
surprised than when I received your letter, in which you stated your
intention of going to the North to live. A more ridiculous whim it is
impossible to conceive--the idea is perfectly absurd! To leave a fine old
place like this, where you have everything around you so nice and
comfortable, to go north, and settle amongst a parcel of strange Yankees!
My dear boy, you must give it up. I'm no longer your guardian--the law
don't provide one for people of thirty years and upwards--so it is out of
my power to say you shall not do it; but I am here to use all my powers of
persuasion to induce you to relinquish the project."

"Uncle John, you don't seem to understand the matter. It is not a whim, by
any means--it is a determination arising from a strict sense of duty; I
feel that it is an act of justice to Emily and the children. I don't
pretend to be better than most men; but my conscience will not permit me to
be the owner of my own flesh and blood. I'm going north, because I wish to
emancipate and educate my children--you know I can't do it here. At first I
was as disinclined to favour the project as you are; but I am now convinced
it is my duty, and, I must add, that my inclination runs in the same
direction."

"Look here, Clarence, my boy," here interrupted uncle John; "you can't
expect to live there as you do here; the prejudice against persons of
colour is much stronger in some of the Northern cities than it is amongst
us Southerners. You can't live with Emily there as you do here; you will be
in everybody's mouth. You won't be able to sustain your old connections
with your Northern friends--you'll find that they will cut you dead."

"I've looked at it well, uncle John. I've counted the cost, and have made
up my mind to meet with many disagreeable things. If my old friends choose
to turn their backs on me because my wife happens to belong to an oppressed
race, that is not my fault. I don't feel that I have committed any sin by
making the choice I have; and so their conduct or opinions won't influence
my happiness much."

"Listen to me, Clary, for a moment," rejoined the old gentleman. "As long
as you live here in Georgia you can sustain your present connection with
impunity, and if you should ever want to break it off, you could do so by
sending her and the children away; it would be no more than other men have
done, and are doing every day. But go to the North, and it becomes a
different thing. Your connection with Emily will inevitably become a matter
of notoriety, and then you would find it difficult to shake her off there,
as you could here, in case you wanted to marry another woman."

"Oh, uncle, uncle, how can you speak so indifferently about my doing such
an ungenerous act; to characterize it in the very mildest terms. I feel
that Emily is as much my wife in the eyes of God, as if a thousand
clergymen had united us. It is not my fault that we are not legally
married; it is the fault of the laws. My father did not feel that my mother
was any more his wife, than I do that Emily is mine."

"Hush, hush; that is all nonsense, boy; and, besides, it is paying a very
poor compliment to your mother to rank her with your mulatto mistress. I
like Emily very much; she has been kind, affectionate, and faithful to you.
Yet I really can't see the propriety of your making a shipwreck of your
whole life on her account. Now," continued uncle John, with great
earnestness, "I hoped for better things from you. You have talents and
wealth; you belong to one of the oldest and best families in the State.
When I am gone, you will be the last of our name; I had hoped that you
would have done something to keep it from sinking into obscurity. There is
no honour in the State to which you might not have aspired with a fair
chance of success; but if you carry out your absurd determination, you will
ruin yourself effectually."

"Well; I shall be ruined then, for I am determined to go. I feel it my duty
to carry out my design," said Mr. Garie.

"Well, well, Clary," rejoined his uncle, "I've done my duty to my brother's
son. I own, that although I cannot agree with you in your project, I can
and do honour the unselfish motive that prompts it. You will always find me
your friend under all circumstances, and now," concluded he, "it's off my
mind."

The children were brought in and duly admired; a box of miniature
carpenter's tools was produced; also, a wonderful man with a string through
his waist--which string, when pulled, caused him to throw his arms and legs
about in a most astonishing manner. The little folks were highly delighted
with these presents, which, uncle John had purchased at Augusta; they
scampered off, and soon had every small specimen of sable humanity on the
place at their heels, in ecstatic admiration of the wonderful articles of
which they had so recently acquired possession. As uncle John had
absolutely refused all other refreshment than the julep before mentioned,
dinner was ordered at a much earlier hour than usual. He ate very heartily,
as was his custom; and, moreover, persisted in stuffing the children (as
old gentlemen will do sometimes) until their mother was compelled to
interfere to prevent their having a bilious attack in consequence. Whilst
the gentlemen were sitting over their desert, Mr. Garie asked his uncle, if
he had not a sister, with whom there was some mystery connected.

"No mystery," replied uncle John. "Your aunt made a very low marriage, and
father cut her off from the family entirely. It happened when I was very
young; she was the eldest of us all; there were four of us, as you
know--your father, Bernard, I, and this sister of whom we are speaking. She
has been dead for some years; she married a carpenter whom father employed
on the place--a poor white man from New York. I have heard it said, that he
was handsome, but drunken and vicious. They left one child--a boy; I
believe he is alive in the North somewhere, or was, a few years since."

"And did she never make any overtures for a reconciliation?"

"She did, some years before father's death, but he was inexorable; he
returned her letter, and died without seeing or forgiving her," replied
uncle John.

"Poor thing; I suppose they were very poor?"

"I suppose they were. I have no sympathy for her. She deserved her fate,
for marrying a greasy mechanic, in opposition to her father's commands,
when she might have connected herself with any of the highest families in
the State."

The gentlemen remained a long while that night, sipping their wine, smoking
cigars, and discussing the probable result of the contemplated change.
Uncle John seemed to have the worst forebodings as to the ultimate
consequences, and gave it as his decided opinion, that they would all
return to the old place in less than a year.

"You'll soon get tired of it," said he; "everything is so different there.
Here you can get on well in your present relations; but mark me, you'll
find nothing but disappointment and trouble where you are going."

The next morning he departed for his home; he kissed the children
affectionately, and shook hands warmly with their mother. After getting
into the carriage, he held out his hand again to his nephew, saying:--

"I am afraid you are going to be disappointed; but I hope you may not. Good
bye, good bye--God bless you!" and his blue eyes looked very watery, as he
was driven from the door.

That day, a letter arrived from Savannah, informing them that the ship in
which they had engaged passage would be ready to sail in a few days; and
they, therefore, determined that the first instalment of boxes and trunks
should be sent to the city forthwith; and to Eph was assigned the
melancholy duty of superintending their removal.

"Let me go with him, pa," begged little Clarence, who heard his father
giving Eph his instructions.

"Oh, no," replied Mr. Garie; "the cart will be full of goods, there will be
no room for you."

"But, pa, I can ride my pony; and, besides, you might let me go, for I
shan't have many more chances to ride him--do let me go."

"Oh, yes, massa, let him go. Why dat ar chile can take care of his pony all
by hissef. You should just seed dem two de oder day. You see de pony felt
kinder big dat day, an' tuck a heap o' airs on hissef, an' tried to trow
him--twarn't no go--Massa Clary conquered him 'pletely. Mighty smart boy,
dat," continued Eph, looking at little Clarence, admiringly, "mighty smart.
I let him shoot off my pistol toder day, and he pat de ball smack through
de bull's eye--dat boy is gwine to be a perfect Ramrod."

"Oh, pa," laughingly interrupted little Clarence; "I've been telling him of
what you read to me about Nimrod being a great hunter."

"That's quite a mistake, Eph," said Mr. Garie, joining in the laugh.
"Well, I knowed it was suffin," said Eph, scratching his head; "suffin with
a rod to it; I was all right on that pint--but you'r gwine to let him go,
ain't yer, massa?"

"I suppose, I must," replied Mr. Garie; "but mind now that no accident
occurs to young Ramrod."

"I'll take care o' dat," said Eph, who hastened off to prepare the horses,
followed by the delighted Clarence.

That evening, after his return from Savannah, Clarence kept his little
sister's eyes expanded to an unprecedented extent by his narration of the
wonderful occurrences attendant on his trip to town, and also of what he
had seen in the vessel. He produced an immense orange, also a vast store of
almonds and raisins, which had been given him by the good-natured steward.
"But Em," said he, "we are going to sleep in such funny little places; even
pa and mamma have got to sleep on little shelves stuck up against the wall;
and they've got a thing that swings from the ceiling that they keep the
tumblers and wine-glasses in--every glass has got a little hole for itself.
Oh, it's so nice!"

"And have they got any nice shady trees on the ship?" asked the wondering
little Em.

"Oh, no--what nonsense!" answered Clarence, swelling with the importance
conferred by his superior knowledge. "Why, no, Em; who ever heard of such a
thing as trees on a ship? they couldn't have trees on a ship if they
wanted--there's no earth for them to grow in. But I'll tell you what
they've got--they've got masts a great deal higher than any tree, and I'm
going to climb clear up to the top when we go to live on the ship."

"I wouldn't," said Em; "you might fall down like Ben did from the tree, and
then you'd have to have your head sewed up as he had."

The probability that an occurrence of this nature might be the result of
his attempt to climb the mast seemed to have considerable weight with
Master Clarence, so he relieved his sister's mind at once by relinquishing
the project.

The morning for departure at length arrived. Eph brought the carriage to
the door at an early hour, and sat upon the box the picture of despair. He
did not descend from his eminence to assist in any of the little
arrangements for the journey, being very fearful that the seat he occupied
might be resumed by its rightful owner, he having had a lengthy contest
with the sable official who acted as coachman, and who had striven
manfully, on this occasion, to take possession of his usual elevated
station on the family equipage. This, Eph would by no means permit, as he
declared, "He was gwine to let nobody drive Massa dat day but hissef."

It was a mournful parting. The slaves crowded around the carriage kissing
and embracing the children, and forcing upon them little tokens of
remembrance. Blind Jacob, the patriarch of the place, came and passed his
hands over the face of little Em for the last time, as he had done almost
every week since her birth, that, to use his own language, "he might see
how de piccaninny growed." His bleared and sightless eyes were turned to
heaven to ask a blessing on the little ones and their parents.

"Why, daddy Jake, you should not take it so hard," said Mr. Garie, with an
attempt at cheerfulness. "You'll see us all again some day."

"No, no, massa, I'se feared I won't; I'se gettin' mighty old, massa, and
I'se gwine home soon. I hopes I'll meet you all up yonder," said he,
pointing heavenward. "I don't 'spect to see any of you here agin."

Many of the slaves were in tears, and all deeply lamented the departure of
their master and his family, for Mr. Garie had always been the kindest of
owners, and Mrs. Garie was, if possible, more beloved than himself. She was
first at every sick-bed, and had been comforter-general to all the
afflicted and distressed in the place.

At last the carriage rolled away, and in a few hours they reached Savannah,
and immediately went on board the vessel.



CHAPTER X.

Another Parting.


Mrs. Ellis had been for some time engaged in arranging and replenishing
Charlie's wardrobe, preparatory to his journey to Warmouth with Mrs. Bird.
An entire new suit of grey cloth had been ordered of the tailor, to whom
Mrs. Ellis gave strict injunctions not to make them too small.
Notwithstanding the unfavourable results of several experiments, Mrs. Ellis
adhered with wonderful tenacity to the idea that a boy's clothes could
never be made too large, and, therefore, when Charlie had a new suit, it
always appeared as if it had been made for some portly gentleman, and sent
home to Charlie by mistake.

This last suit formed no exception to the others, and Charlie surveyed with
dismay its ample dimensions as it hung from the back of the chair. "Oh,
gemini!" said he, "but that jacket is a rouser! I tell you what, mother,
you'll have to get out a search-warrant to find me in that jacket; now,
mind, I tell you!"

"Nonsense!" replied Mrs. Ellis, "it don't look a bit too large; put it on."

Charlie took up the coat, and in a twinkling had it on over his other. His
hands were almost completely lost in the excessively long sleeves, which
hung down so far that the tips of his fingers were barely visible. "Oh,
mother!" he exclaimed, "just look at these sleeves--if such a thing were to
happen that any one were to offer me a half dollar, they would change their
mind before I could get my hand out to take it; and it will almost go twice
round me, it is so large in the waist."

"Oh, you can turn the sleeves up; and as for the waist--you'll soon grow
to it; it will be tight enough for you before long, I'll warrant," said
Mrs. Ellis.

"But, mother," rejoined Charlie, "that is just what you said about the
other blue suit, and it was entirely worn out before you had let down the
tucks in the trowsers."

"Never mind the blue suit," persisted Mrs. Ellis, entirely unbiassed by
this statement of facts. "You'll grow faster this time--you're going into
the country, you must remember--boys always grow fast in the country; go
into the other room and try on the trowsers."

Charlie retired into another room with the trowsers in question. Here he
was joined by Kinch, who went into fits of laughter over Charlie's
pea-jacket, as he offensively called the new coat.

"Why, Charlie," said he, "it fits you like a shirt on a bean-pole, or
rather it's like a sentry's box--it don't touch you any where. But get into
these pants," said he, almost choking with the laughter that Charlie's
vexed look caused him to suppress--"get into the pants;" at the same time
tying a string round Charlie's neck.

"What are you doing that for?" exclaimed Charlie, in an irritated tone; "I
shouldn't have thought you would make fun of me!"

"Oh," said Kinch, assuming a solemn look, "don't they always tie a rope
round a man's body when they are going to lower him into a pit? and how on
earth do you ever expect we shall find you in the legs of them trowsers,
unless something is fastened to you?" Here Charlie was obliged to join in
the laugh that Kinch could no longer restrain.

"Stop that playing, boys," cried Mrs. Ellis, as their noisy mirth reached
her in the adjoining room; "you forget I am waiting for you."

Charlie hastily drew on the trousers, and found that their dimensions fully
justified the precaution Kinch was desirous of taking to secure him from
sinking into oblivion.

"Oh, I can't wear these things," said Charlie, tears of vexation starting
from his eyes. "Why, they are so large I can't even keep them up; and just
look at the legs, will you--they'll have to be turned up a quarter of a
yard at least."

"Here," said Kinch, seizing a large pillow, "I'll stuff this in. Oh, golly,
how you look! if you ain't a sight to see!" and he shouted with laughter as
he surveyed Charlie, to whom the pillow had imparted the appearance of a
London alderman. "If you don't look like Squire Baker now, I'll give it up.
You are as big as old Daddy Downhill. You are a regular Daniel Lambert!"

The idea of looking like Squire Baker and Daddy Downhill, who were the "fat
men" of their acquaintance, amused Charlie as much as it did his companion,
and making the house ring with their mirth, they entered the room where Mr.
Ellis and the girls had joined Mrs. Ellis.

"What on earth is the matter with the child?" exclaimed Mr. Ellis, as he
gazed upon the grotesque figure Charlie presented. "What has the boy been
doing to himself?" Hereupon Kinch explained how matters stood, to the
infinite amusement of all parties.

"Oh, Ellen," said Mr. Ellis, "you must have them altered; they're a mile
too big for him. I really believe they would fit me."

"They do look rather large," said Mrs. Ellis, reluctantly; "but it seems
such a waste to take them in, as he grows so fast."

"He would not grow enough in two years to fill that suit," rejoined Mr.
Ellis; "and he will have worn them out in less than six months;" and so, to
the infinite satisfaction of Charlie, it was concluded that they should be
sent back to the tailor's for the evidently necessary alterations.

The day for Charlie's departure at last arrived.

Kinch, who had been up since two o'clock in the morning, was found by Caddy
at the early hour of five waiting upon the door-step to accompany his
friend to the wharf. Beside him lay a bag, in which there appeared to be
some living object.

"What have you got in here?" asked Caddy, as she gave the bag a punch with
the broom she was using. "It's a present for Charlie," replied Kinch,
opening the bag, and displaying, to the astonished gaze of Caddy, a very
young pig.

"Why," said she, laughing, "you don't expect he can take that with him, do
you?"

"Why not?" asked Kinch, taking up the bag and carrying it into the house.
"It's just the thing to take into the country; Charlie can fatten him and
sell him for a lot of money."

It was as much as Mrs. Ellis could do to convince Charlie and Kinch of the
impracticability of their scheme of carrying off to Warmouth the pig in
question. She suggested, as it was the exclusive property of Kinch, and he
was so exceedingly anxious to make Charlie a parting gift, that she should
purchase it, which she did, on the spot; and Kinch invested all the money
in a large cross-bow, wherewith Charlie was to shoot game sufficient to
supply both Kinch and his own parents. Had Charlie been on his way to the
scaffold, he could not have been followed by a more solemn face than that
presented by Kinch as he trudged on with him in the rear the porter who
carried the trunk.

"I wish you were not going," said he, as he put his arm affectionately over
Charlie's shoulder, "I shall be so lonesome when you are gone; and what is
more, I know I shall get licked every day in school, for who will help me
with my sums?"

"Oh, any of the boys will, they all like you, Kinch; and if you only study
a little harder, you can do them yourself," was Charlie's encouraging
reply.

On arriving at the boat, they found. Mrs. Bird waiting for them; so Charlie
hastily kissed his mother and sisters, and made endless promises not to be
mischievous, and, above all, to be as tidy as possible. Then tearing
himself away from them, and turning to Kinch, he exclaimed, "I'll be back
to see you all again soon, so don't cry old fellow;" and at the same time
thrusting his hand into his pocket, he drew out a number of marbles, which
he gave him, his own lips quivering all the while. At last his attempts to
suppress his tears and look like a man grew entirely futile, and he cried
heartily as Mrs. Bird took his hand and drew him on board the steamer.

As it slowly moved from the pier and glided up the river, Charlie stood
looking with tearful eyes at his mother and sisters, who, with Kinch, waved
their handkerchiefs as long as they could distinguish him, and then he saw
them move away with the crowd.

Mrs. Bird, who had been conversing with a lady who accompanied her a short
distance on her journey, came and took her little _protege_ by the hand,
and led him to a seat near her in the after part of the boat, informing
him, as she did so, that they would shortly exchange the steamer for the
cars, and she thought he had better remain near her.

After some time they approached the little town where the passengers took
the train for New York. Mrs. Bird, who had taken leave of her friend, held
Charlie fast by the hand, and they entered the cars together. He looked a
little pale and weak from the excitement of parting and the novelty of his
situation. Mrs. Bird, observing his pallid look, placed him on a seat, and
propped him up with shawls and cushions, making him as comfortable as
possible.

The train had not long started, when the conductor came through to inspect
the tickets, and quite started with surprise at seeing Charlie stretched at
full length upon the velvet cushion. "What are you doing here?" exclaimed
he, at the same time shaking him roughly, to arouse him from the slight
slumber into which he had fallen. "Come, get up: you must go out of this."

"What do you mean by such conduct?" asked Mrs. Bird, very much surprised.
"Don't wake him; I've got his ticket; the child is sick."

"I don't care whether he's sick or well--he can't ride in here. We don't
allow <DW65>s to ride in this car, no how you can fix it--so come,
youngster," said he, gruffly, to the now aroused boy, "you must travel out
of this."

"He shall do no such thing," replied Mrs. Bird, in a decided tone; "I've
paid fall price for his ticket, and he shall ride here; you have no legal
right to eject him."

"I've got no time to jaw about rights, legal or illegal--all I care to know
is, that I've my orders not to let <DW65>s ride in these cars, and I expect
to obey, so you see there is no use to make any fuss about it."

"Charlie," said Mrs. Bird, "sit here;" and she moved aside, so as to seat
him between herself and the window. "Now," said she, "move him if you think
best."

"I'll tell you what it is, old woman," doggedly remarked the conductor:
"you can't play that game with me. I've made up my mind that no more
<DW65>s shall ride in this car, and I'll have him out of here, cost what it
may."

The passengers now began to cluster around the contending parties, and to
take sides in the controversy. In the end, the conductor stopped the train,
and called in one or two of the Irish brake-men to assist him, if
necessary, in enforcing his orders.

"You had better let the boy go into the <DW64> car, madam," said one of the
gentlemen, respectfully; "it is perfectly useless to contend with these
ruffians. I saw a <DW52> man ejected from here last week, and severely
injured; and, in the present state of public feeling, if anything happened
to you or the child, you would be entirely without redress. The directors
of this railroad control the State; and there is no such thing as justice
to be obtained in any of the State courts in a matter in which they are
concerned. If you will accept of my arm, I will accompany you to the other
car--if you will not permit the child to go there alone, you had better go
quietly with him."

"Oh, what is the use of so much talk about it? Why don't you hustle the old
thing out," remarked a bystander, the respectability of whose appearance
contrasted broadly with his manners; "she is some crack-brained
abolitionist. Making so much fuss about a little <DW65>! Let her go into
the <DW65> car--she'll be more at home there."

Mrs. Bird, seeing the uselessness of contention, accepted the proffered
escort of the gentleman before mentioned, and was followed out of the cars
by the conductor and his blackguard assistants, all of them highly elated
by the victory they had won over a defenceless old woman and a feeble
little boy.

Mrs. Bird shrunk back, as they opened the door of the car that had been set
apart for <DW52> persons, and such objectionable whites as were not
admitted to the first-class cars. "Oh, what a wretched place!" she
exclaimed, as she surveyed the rough pine timbers and dirty floor; "I would
not force a dog to ride in such a filthy place."

"Oh, don't stay here, ma'am; never mind me--I shall get on by myself well
enough, I dare say," said Charlie; "it is too nasty a place for you to stay
in."

"No, my child," she replied; "I'll remain with you. I could not think of
permitting you to be alone in your present state of health. I declare," she
continued, "it's enough to make any one an abolitionist, or anything else
of the kind, to see how inoffensive <DW52> people are treated!"

That evening they went on board the steamer that was to convey them to
Warmouth, where they arrived very early the following morning.

Charlie was charmed with the appearance of the pretty little town, as they
rode through it in Mrs. Bird's carriage, which awaited them at the landing.
At the door of her residence they were met by two cherry-faced maids, who
seemed highly delighted at the arrival of their mistress.

"Now, Charlie," said Mrs. Bird, as she sat down in her large arm-chair, and
looked round her snug little parlour with an air of great
satisfaction--"now we are at home, and you must try and make yourself as
happy as possible. Betsey," said she, turning to one of the women, "here is
a nice little fellow, whom I have brought with me to remain during the
summer, of whom I want you to take the best care; for," continued she,
looking at him compassionately, "the poor child has had the misfortune to
break his arm recently, and he has not been strong since. The physician
thought the country would be the best place for him, and so I've brought
him here to stay with us. Tell Reuben to carry his trunk into the little
maple chamber, and by-and-by, after I have rested, I will take a walk over
the place with him."

"Here are two letters for you," said Betsey, taking them from the
mantelpiece, and handing them to her mistress.

Mrs. Bird opened one, of which she read a part, and then laid it down, as
being apparently of no importance. The other, however, seemed to have a
great effect upon her, as she exclaimed, hurriedly, "Tell Reuben not to
unharness the horses--I must go to Francisville immediately--dear Mrs.
Hinton is very ill, and not expected to recover. You must take good care of
Charlie until I return. If I do not come back to-night, you will know that
she is worse, and that I am compelled to remain there;" and, on the
carriage being brought to the door, she departed in haste to visit her sick
friend.



CHAPTER XI

The New Home.


When Mrs. Garie embarked, she entertained the idea so prevalent among
fresh-water sailors, that she was to be an exception to the rule of Father
Neptune, in accordance with which all who intrude for the first time upon
his domain are compelled to pay tribute to his greatness, and humbly bow in
acknowledgment of his power.

Mrs. Garie had determined not to be sea-sick upon any account whatever,
being fully persuaded she could brave the ocean with impunity, and was,
accordingly, very brisk and blithe-looking, as she walked up and down upon
the deck of the vessel. In the course of a few hours they sailed out of the
harbour, and were soon in the open sea. She began to find out how mistaken
she had been, as unmistakable symptoms convinced her of the vanity of all
human calculations. "Why, you are not going to be ill, Em, after all your
valiant declarations!" exclaimed Mr. Garie, supporting her unsteady steps,
as they paced to and fro.

"Oh, no, no!" said she, in a firm tone; "I don't intend to give up to any
such nonsense. I believe that people can keep up if they try. I do feel a
little fatigued and nervous; it's caused, no doubt, by the long drive of
this morning--although I think it singular that a drive should affect me in
this manner." Thus speaking, she sat down by the bulwarks of the vessel,
and a despairing look gradually crept over her face. At last she suddenly
rose, to look at the water, as we may imagine. The effect of her scrutiny,
however, was, that she asked feebly to be assisted to her state-room, where
she remained until their arrival in the harbour of New York. The children
suffered only for a short time, and as their father escaped entirely, he
was able to watch that they got into no mischief. They were both great
favourites with the captain and steward, and, between the two, were so
stuffed and crammed with sweets as to place their health in considerable
jeopardy.

It was a delightful morning when they sailed into the harbour of New York.
The waters were dancing and rippling in the morning sun, and the
gaily-painted ferry-boats were skimming swiftly across its surface in their
trips to and from the city, which was just awaking to its daily life of
bustling toil.

"What an immense city it is!" said Mrs. Garie--"how full of life and
bustle! Why there are more ships at one pier here than there are in the
whole port of Savanah!"

"Yes, dear," rejoined her husband; "and what is more, there always will be.
Our folks in Georgia are not waked up yet; and when they do arouse
themselves from their slumber, it will be too late. But we don't see half
the shipping from here--this is only one side of the city--there is much
more on the other. Look over there," continued he, pointing to Jersey
city,--"that is where we take the cars for Philadelphia; and if we get up
to dock in three or four hours, we shall be in time for the mid-day train."

In less time than they anticipated they were alongside the wharf; the
trunks were brought up, and all things for present use were safely packed
together and despatched, under the steward's care, to the office of the
railroad.

Mr. and Mrs. Garie, after bidding good-bye to the captain, followed with
the children, who were thrown into a great state of excitement by the noise
and bustle of the crowded thoroughfare.

"How this whirl and confusion distracts me," said Mrs. Garie, looking out
of the carriage-window. "I hope Philadelphia is not as noisy a place as
this."

"Oh, no," replied Mr. Garie; "it is one of the most quiet and clean cities
in the world, whilst this is the noisiest and dirtiest. I always hurry out
of New York; it is to me such a disagreeable place, with its extortionate
hackmen and filthy streets."

On arriving at the little steamer in which they crossed the ferry, they
found it about to start, and therefore had to hurry on board with all
possible speed.

Under the circumstances, the hackman felt that it would be flying in the
face of Providence if he did not extort a large fare, and he therefore
charged an extravagant price. Mr. Garie paid him, as he had no time to
parley, and barely succeeded in slipping a _douceur_ into the steward's
hand, when the boat pushed off from the pier.

In a few moments they had crossed the river, and were soon comfortably
seated in the cars whirling over the track to Philadelphia.

As the conductor came through to examine the tickets, he paused for a
moment before Mrs. Garie and the children. As he passed on, his assistant
inquired, "Isn't that a <DW65>?"

"Yes, a half-white one," was the reply.

"Why don't you order her out, then?--she has no business to ride in here,"
continued the first speaker.

"I guess we had better let her alone," suggested the conductor,
"particularly as no one has complained; and there might be a row if she
turned out to be the nurse to those children. The whole party are
Southerners, that's clear; and these Southerners are mighty touchy about
their <DW65>s sometimes, and kick and cut like the devil about them. I
guess we had better let her alone, unless some one complains about her
being there."

As they drove through the streets of Philadelphia on the way to their new
home, Mrs. Garie gave rent to many expressions of delight at the appearance
of the city. "Oh, what a sweet place! everything is so bright and
fresh-looking; why the pavement and doorsteps look as if they were cleaned
twice a day. Just look at that house, how spotless it is; I hope ours
resembles that. Ours is a new house, is it not?" she inquired. "Not
entirely; it has been occupied before, but only for a short time, I
believe," was her husband's reply.

It had grown quite dark by the time they arrived at Winter-street, where
Caddy had been anxiously holding watch and ward in company with the
servants who had been procured for them. A bright light was burning in the
entry as the coachman stopped at the door.

"This is No. 27," said he, opening the door of the carriage, "shall I
ring?"

"Yes, do," replied Mr. Garie; but whilst he was endeavouring to open the
gate of the little garden in front, Caddy, who had heard the carriage stop,
bounded out to welcome them. "This is Mr. Garie, I suppose," said she, as
he alighted.

"Yes, I am; and you, I suppose, are the daughter of Mr. Ellis?"

"Yes, sir; I'm sorry mother is not here to welcome you; she was here until
very late last night expecting your arrival, and was here again this
morning," said Caddy, taking at the same time one of the little carpet
bags. "Give me the little girl, I can take care of her too," she continued;
and with little Em on one arm and the carpet bag on the other, she led the
way into the house.

"We did not make up any fire," said she, "the weather is very warm to us. I
don't know how it may feel to you, though."

"It is a little chilly," replied Mrs. Garie, as she sat down upon the sofa,
and looked round the room with a smile of pleasure, and added, "All this
place wants, to make it the most bewitching of rooms, is a little fire."

Caddy hurried the new servants from place to place remorselessly, and set
them to prepare the table and get the things ready for tea. She waylaid a
party of labourers, who chanced to be coming that way, and hired them to
carry all the luggage upstairs--had the desired fire made--mixed up some
corn-bread, and had tea on the table in a twinkling. They all ate very
heartily, and Caddy was greatly praised for her activity.

"You are quite a housekeeper," said Mrs. Garie to Caddy. "Do you like it?"

"Oh, yes," she replied. "I see to the house at home almost entirely; mother
and Esther are so much engaged in sewing, that they are glad enough to
leave it in my hands, and I'd much rather do that than sew."

"I hope," said Mrs. Garie, "that your mother will permit you to remain with
us until we get entirely settled."

"I know she will," confidently replied Caddy. "She will be up here in the
morning. She will know you have arrived by my not having gone home this
evening."

The children had now fallen asleep with their heads in close proximity to
their plates, and Mrs. Garie declared that she felt very much fatigued and
slightly indisposed, and thought the sooner she retired the better it would
be for her. She accordingly went up to the room, which she had already seen
and greatly admired, and was soon in the land of dreams.

As is always the case on such occasions, the children's night-dresses could
not be found. Clarence was put to bed in one of his father's shirts, in
which he was almost lost, and little Em was temporarily accommodated with a
calico short gown of Caddy's, and, in default of a nightcap, had her head
tied up in a Madras handkerchief, which gave her, when her back was turned,
very much the air of an old Creole who had been by some mysterious means
deprived of her due growth.

The next morning Mrs. Garie was so much indisposed at to be unable to rise,
and took her breakfast in bed. Her husband had finished his meal, and was
sitting in the parlour, when he observed a middle-aged <DW52> lady coming
into the garden.

"Look, Caddy," cried he, "isn't this your mother?"

"Oh, yes, that is she," replied Caddy, and ran and opened the door,
exclaiming, "Oh, mother, they're come;" and as she spoke, Mr. Garie came
into the entry and shook hands heartily with her. "I'm so much indebted
to you," said he, "for arranging everything so nicely for us--there is not
a thing we would wish to alter."

"I am very glad you are pleased; we did our best to make it comfortable,"
was her reply.

"And you succeeded beyond our expectation; but do come up," continued he,
"Emily will be delighted to see you. She is quite unwell this morning; has
not even got up yet;" and leading the way upstairs, he ushered Mrs. Ellis
into the bedroom.

"Why, can this be you?" said she, surveying Emily with surprise and
pleasure. "If I had met you anywhere, I should never have known you. How
you have altered! You were not so tall as my Caddy when I saw you last; and
here you are with two children--and pretty little things they are too!"
said she, kissing little Em, who was seated on the bed with her brother,
and sharing with him the remains of her mother's chocolate.

"And you look much younger that I expected to see you," replied Mrs. Garie.
"Draw a chair up to the bed, and let us have a talk about old times. You
must excuse my lying down; I don't intend to get up to-day; I feel quite
indisposed."

Mrs. Ellis took off her bonnet, and prepared for a long chat; whilst Mr.
Garie, looking at his watch, declared it was getting late, and started for
down town, where he had to transact some business.

"You can scarcely think, Ellen, how much I feel indebted to you for all you
have done for us; and we are so distressed to hear about Charlie's
accident. You must have had a great deal of trouble."

"Oh, no, none to speak of--and had it been ever so much, I should have been
just as pleased to have done it; I was so glad you were coming. What did
put it in your heads to come here to live?" continued Mrs. Ellis.

"Oh, cousin George Winston praised the place so highly, and you know how
disagreeable Georgia is to live in. My mind was never at rest there
respecting these," said she, pointing to the children; "so that I fairly
teased Garie into it. Did you recognize George?"

"No, I didn't remember much about him. I should never have taken him for a
<DW52> man; had I met him in the street, I should have supposed him to be
a wealthy white Southerner. What a gentleman he is in his appearance and
manners," said Mrs. Ellis.

"Yes, he is all that--my husband thinks there is no one like him. But we
won't talk about him now; I want you to tell me all about yourself and
family, and then I'll tell you everything respecting my own fortunes."
Hereupon ensued long narratives from both parties, which occupied the
greater part of the morning.

Mr. Garie, on leaving the house, slowly wended his way to the residence of
Mr. Walters. As he passed into the lower part of the city, his attention
was arrested by the number of <DW52> children he saw skipping merrily
along with their bags of books on their arms.

"This," said he to himself, "don't much resemble Georgia."[*]

[Footnote *: It is a penal offence in Georgia to teach <DW52> children to
read.]

After walking some distance he took out a card, and read, 257,
Easton-street; and on inquiry found himself in the very street. He
proceeded to inspect the numbers, and was quite perplexed by their
confusion and irregularity.

A <DW52> boy happening to pass at the time, he asked him: "Which way do
the numbers run, my little man?"

The boy looked up waggishly, and replied: "They don't run at all; they are
permanently affixed to each door."

"But," said Mr. Garie, half-provoked, yet compelled to smile at the boy's
pompous wit, "you know what I mean; I cannot find the number I wish; the
street is not correctly numbered."

"The street is not numbered at all," rejoined the boy, "but the houses
are," and he skipped lightly away.

Mr. Garie was finally set right about the numbers, and found himself at
length before the door of Mr. Walters's house. "Quite a handsome
residence," said he, as he surveyed the stately house, with its spotless
marble steps and shining silver door-plate.

On ringing, his summons was quickly answered by a well-dressed servant, who
informed him that Mr. Walters was at home, and ushered him into the
parlour. The elegance of the room took Mr. Garie completely by surprise, as
its furniture indicated not only great wealth, but cultivated taste and
refined habits. The richly-papered walls were adorned by paintings from the
hands of well-known foreign and native artists. Rich vases and
well-executed bronzes were placed in the most favourable situations in the
apartment; the elegantly-carved walnut table was covered with those
charming little bijoux which the French only are capable of conceiving, and
which are only at the command of such purchasers as are possessed of more
money than they otherwise can conveniently spend.

Mr. Garie threw himself into a luxuriously-cushioned chair, and was soon so
absorbed in contemplating the likeness of a <DW64> officer which hung
opposite, that he did not hear the soft tread of Mr. Walters as he entered
the room. The latter, stepping slowly forward, caught the eye of Mr. Garie,
who started up, astonished at the commanding figure before him.

"Mr. Garie, I presume?" said Mr. Walters.

"Yes," he replied, and added, as he extended his hand; "I have the pleasure
of addressing Mr. Walters, I suppose?"

Mr. Walters bowed low as he accepted the proffered hand, and courteously
requested his visitor to be seated.

As Mr. Garie resumed his seat, he could not repress a look of surprise,
which Mr. Walters apparently perceived, for a smile slightly curled his lip
as he also took a seat opposite his visitor.

Mr. Walters was above six feet in height, and exceedingly
well-proportioned; of jet-black complexion, and smooth glossy skin. His
head was covered with a quantity of woolly hair, which was combed back from
a broad but not very high forehead. His eyes were small, black, and
piercing, and set deep in his head. His aquiline nose, thin lips, and broad
chin, were the very reverse of African in their shape, and gave his face a
very singular appearance. In repose, his countenance was severe in its
expression; but when engaged in agreeable conversation, the thin
sarcastic-looking lips would part, displaying a set of dazzlingly white
teeth, and the small black eyes would sparkle with animation. The neatness
and care with which he was dressed added to the attractiveness of his
appearance. His linen was the perfection of whiteness, and his snowy vest
lost nothing by its contact therewith. A long black frock coat, black
pants, and highly-polished boots, completed his attire.

"I hope," said he, "your house suits you; it is one of my own, and has
never been rented except for a short time to a careful tenant, who was
waiting for his own house to be finished. I think you will find it
comfortable."

"Oh, perfectly so, I am quite sure. I must thank you for the prompt manner
in which you have arranged everything for us. It seems more like coming to
an old home than to a new residence," replied Mr. Garie.

"I am delighted to hear you say so," said Mr. Walters. "I shall be most
happy to call and pay my respects to Mrs. Garie when agreeable to her.
Depend upon it, we will do all in our power to make our quiet city pleasant
to you both."

Mr. Garie thanked him, and after some further conversation, rose to depart.

As he was leaving the room, he stopped before the picture which had so
engaged his attention, when Mr. Walters entered.

"So you, too, are attracted by that picture," said Mr. Walters, with a
smile. "All white men look at it with interest. A black man in the uniform
of a general officer is something so unusual that they cannot pass it with
a glance." "It is, indeed, rather a novelty," replied Mr. Garie,
"particularly to a person from my part of the country. Who is it?"

"That is Toussaint l'Ouverture," replied Mr. Walters; "and I have every
reason to believe it to be a correct likeness. It was presented to an
American merchant by Toussaint himself--a present in return for some
kindness shown him. This merchant's son, not having the regard for the
picture that his father entertained for it, sold it to me. That," continued
Mr. Walters, "looks like a man of intelligence. It is entirely different
from any likeness I ever saw of him. The portraits generally represent him
as a monkey-faced person, with a handkerchief about his head."

"This," said Mr. Garie, "gives me an idea of the man that accords with his
actions."

Thus speaking, he continued looking at the picture for a short time, and
then took his departure, after requesting Mr. Walters to call upon him at
an early opportunity.



CHAPTER XII.

Mr. Garie's Neighbour.


We must now introduce our readers into the back parlour of the house
belonging to Mr. Garie's next-door neighbour, Mr. Thomas Stevens.

We find this gentleman standing at a window that overlooked his garden,
enjoying a fragrant Havannah. His appearance was not by any means
prepossessing; he was rather above than below the middle height, with round
shoulders, and long, thin arms, finished off by disagreeable-looking hands.
His head was bald on the top, and the thin greyish-red hair, that grew more
thickly about his ears, was coaxed up to that quarter, where an attempt had
been made to effect such a union between the cords of the hair from each
side as should cover the place in question.

The object, however, remained unaccomplished; as the hair was either very
obstinate and would not be induced to lie as desired, or from extreme
modesty objected to such an elevated position, and, in consequence, stopped
half-way, as if undecided whether to lie flat or remain erect, producing
the effect that would have been presented had he been decorated with a pair
of horns. His baldness might have given an air of benevolence to his face,
but for the shaggy eyebrows that over-shadowed his cunning-looking grey
eyes. His cheekbones were high, and the cadaverous skin was so tightly
drawn across them, as to give it a very parchment-like appearance. Around
his thin compressed lips there was a continual nervous twitching, that
added greatly to the sinister aspect of his face.

On the whole, he was a person from whom you would instinctively shrink;
and had he been president or director of a bank in which you had money
deposited, his general aspect would not have given you additional
confidence in the stable character or just administration of its affairs.

Mr. George Stevens was a pettifogging attorney, who derived a tolerable
income from a rather disreputable legal practice picked up among the courts
that held their sessions in the various halls of the State-house. He was
known in the profession as Slippery George, from the easy manner in which
he glided out of scrapes that would have been fatal to the reputation of
any other lawyer. Did a man break into a house, and escape without being
actually caught on the spot with the goods in his possession, Stevens was
always able to prove an alibi by a long array of witnesses. In fact, he was
considered by the swell gentry of the city as their especial friend and
protector, and by the members of the bar generally as anything but an
ornament to the profession.

He had had rather a fatiguing day's labour, and on the evening of which we
write, was indulging in his usual cigar, and amusing himself at the same
time by observing the gambols of Clarence and little Em, who were enjoying
a romp in their father's garden.

"Come here, Jule," said he, "and look at our new neighbour's
children--rather pretty, ain't they?"

He was joined by a diminutive red-faced woman, with hair and eyes very much
like his own, and a face that wore a peevish, pinched expression.

"Rather good-looking," she replied, after observing them for a few minutes,
and then added, "Have you seen their parents?"

"No, not yet," was the reply. "I met Walters in the street this morning,
who informed me they are from the South, and very rich; we must try and
cultivate them--ask the children in to play with ours, and strike up an
intimacy in that way, the rest will follow naturally, you know. By the way,
Jule," continued he, "how I hate that <DW65> Walters, with his grand airs.
I wanted some money of him the other day on rather ticklish securities for
a client of mine, and the black wretch kept me standing in his hall for at
least five minutes, and then refused me, with some not very complimentary
remarks upon my assurance in offering him such securities. It made me so
mad I could have choked him--it is bad enough to be treated with _hauteur_
by a white man, but contempt from a <DW65> is almost unendurable."

"Why didn't you resent it in some way? I never would have submitted to
anything of the kind from him," interrupted Mrs. Stevens.

"Oh, I don't dare to just now; I have to be as mild as milk with him. You
forget about the mortgage; don't you know he has me in a tight place there,
and I don't see how to get out of it either. If I am called Slippery
George, I tell you what, Jule, there's not a better man of business in the
whole of Philadelphia than that same Walters, <DW65> as he is; and no one
offends him without paying dear for it in some way or other. I'll tell you
something he did last week. He went up to Trenton on business, and at the
hotel they refused to give him dinner because of his colour, and told him
they did not permit <DW65>s to eat at their tables. What does he do but buy
the house over the landlord's head. The lease had just expired, and the
landlord was anxious to negotiate another; he was also making some
arrangements with his creditors, which could not be effected unless he was
enabled to renew the lease of the premises he occupied. On learning that
the house had been sold, he came down to the city to negotiate with the new
owner, and to his astonishment found him to be the very man he had refused
a meal to the week before. Blunt happened to be in Walters's office at the
time the fellow called. Walters, he says, drew himself up to his full
height, and looked like an ebony statue.

"Sir," said he, "I came to your house and asked for a meal, for which I was
able to pay; you not only refused it to me, but heaped upon me words such
as fall only from the lips of blackguards. You refuse to have me in your
house--I object to have you in mine: you will, therefore, quit the
premises immediately." The fellow sneaked out quite crestfallen, and his
creditors have broken him up completely.

"I tell you what, Jule, if I was a black," continued he, "living in a
country like this, I'd sacrifice conscience and everything else to the
acquisition of wealth."

As he concluded, he turned from the window and sat down by a small table,
upon which a lighted lamp had been placed, and where a few law papers were
awaiting a perusal.

A little boy and girl were sitting opposite to him. The boy was playing
with a small fly-trap, wherein he had already imprisoned a vast number of
buzzing sufferers. In appearance he bore a close resemblance to his father;
he had the same red hair and sallow complexion, but his grey eyes had a
dull leaden hue.

"Do let them go, George, do!" said the little girl, in a pleading tone.
"You'll kill them, shut up there."

"I don't care if I do," replied he, doggedly; "I can catch more--look
here;" and as he spoke he permitted a few of the imprisoned insects to
creep partly out, and then brought the lid down upon them with a force that
completely demolished them.

The little girl shuddered at this wanton exhibition of cruelty, and offered
him a paper of candy if he would liberate his prisoners, which he did
rather reluctantly, but promising himself to replenish the box at the first
opportunity.

"Ah!" said he, in a tone of exultation, "father took me with him to the
jail to-day, and I saw all the people locked up. I mean to be a jailer some
of these days. Wouldn't you like to keep a jail, Liz?" continued he, his
leaden eyes receiving a slight accession of brightness at the idea.

"Oh, no!" replied she; "I would let all the people go, if I kept the jail."

A more complete contrast than this little girl presented to her parents and
brother, cannot be imagined. She had very dark chestnut hair, and mild blue
eyes, and a round, full face, which, in expression, was sweetness itself.
She was about six years old, and her brother's junior by an equal number
of years.

Her mother loved her, but thought her tame and spiritless in her
disposition; and her father cherished as much affection for her as he was
capable of feeling for any one but himself.

Mrs. Stevens, however, doted on their eldest hope, who was as disagreeable
as a thoroughly spoiled and naturally evil-disposed boy could be.

As the evenings had now become quite warm, Mr. Garie frequently took a
chair and enjoyed his evening cigar upon the door-step of his house; and as
Mr. Stevens thought his steps equally suited to this purpose, it was very
natural he should resort there with the same object.

Mr. Stevens found no difficulty in frequently bringing about short
neighbourly conversations with Mr. Garie. The little folk, taking their cue
from their parents, soon became intimate, and ran in and out of each
other's houses in the most familiar manner possible. Lizzy Stevens and
little Em joined hearts immediately, and their intimacy had already been
cemented by frequent consultations on the various ailments wherewith they
supposed their dolls afflicted.

Clarence got on only tolerably with George Stevens; he entertained for him
that deference that one boy always has for another who is his superior in
any boyish pastime; but there was little affection lost between them--they
cared very little for each other's society.

Mrs. Garie, since her arrival, had been much confined to her room, in
consequence of her protracted indisposition. Mrs. Stevens had several times
intimated to Mr. Garie her intention of paying his wife a visit; but never
having received any very decided encouragement, she had not pressed the
matter, though her curiosity was aroused, and she was desirous of seeing
what kind of person Mrs. Garie could be.

Her son George in his visits had never been permitted farther than the
front parlour; and all the information that could be drawn from little
Lizzy, who was frequently in Mrs. Garie's bedroom, was that "she was a
pretty lady, with great large eyes." One evening, when Mr. Garie was
occupying his accustomed seat, he was accosted from the other side by Mrs.
Stevens, who, as usual, was very particular in her inquiries after the
state of his wife's health; and on learning that she was so much improved
as to be down-stairs, suggested that, perhaps, she would be willing to
receive her.

"No doubt she will," rejoined Mr. Garie; and he immediately entered the
house to announce the intended visit. The lamps were not lighted when Mrs.
Stevens was introduced, and faces could not, therefore, be clearly
distinguished.

"My dear," said Mr. Garie, "this is our neighbour, Mrs. Stevens."

"Will you excuse me for not rising?" said Mrs. Garie, extending her hand to
her visitor. "I have been quite ill, or I should have been most happy to
have received you before. My little folks are in your house a great deal--I
hope you do not find them troublesome."

"Oh, by no means! I quite dote on your little Emily, she is such a sweet
child--so very affectionate. It is a great comfort to have such a child
near for my own to associate with--they have got quite intimate, as I hope
we soon shall be."

Mrs. Garie thanked her for the kindness implied in the wish, and said she
trusted they should be so.

"And how do you like your house?" asked Mrs. Stevens; "it is on the same
plan as ours, and we find ours very convenient. They both formerly belonged
to Walters; my husband purchased of him. Do you intend to buy?"

"It is very probable we shall, if we continue to like Philadelphia,"
answered Mr. Garie.

"I'm delighted to hear that," rejoined she--"very glad, indeed. It quite
relieves my mind about one thing: ever since Mr. Stevens purchased our
house we have been tormented with the suspicion that Walters would put a
family of <DW65>s in this; and if there is one thing in this world I detest
more than another, it is <DW52> people, I think."

Mr. Garie here interrupted her by making some remark quite foreign to the
subject, with the intention, no doubt, of drawing her off this topic. The
attempt was, however, an utter failure, for she continued--"I think all
those that are not slaves ought to be sent out of the country back to
Africa, where they belong: they are, without exception, the most ignorant,
idle, miserable set I ever saw."

"I think," said Mr. Garie, "I can show you at least one exception, and that
too without much trouble. Sarah," he cried, "bring me a light."

"Oh," said Mrs. Stevens, "I suppose you refer to Walters--it is true he is
an exception; but he is the only <DW52> person I ever saw that could make
the least pretension to anything like refinement or respectability.

"Let me show you another," said Mr. Garie, as he took the lamp from the
servant and placed it upon the table near his wife.

As the light fell on her face, their visitor saw that she belonged to the
very class that she had been abusing in such unmeasured terms and so
petrified was she with confusion at the _faux pas_ she had committed, that
she was entirely unable to improvise the slightest apology.

Mrs. Garie, who had been reclining on the lounge, partially raised herself
and gave Mrs. Stevens a withering look. "I presume, madam," said she, in a
hurried and agitated tone, "that you are very ignorant of the people upon
whom you have just been heaping such unmerited abuse, and therefore I shall
not think so hardly of you as I should, did I deem your language dictated
by pure hatred; but, be its origin what it may, it is quite evident that
our farther acquaintance could be productive of no pleasure to either of
us--you will, therefore, permit me," continued she, rising with great
dignity, "to wish you good evening;" and thus speaking, she left the room.

Mrs. Stevens was completely demolished by this unexpected _denouement_ of
her long-meditated visit, and could only feebly remark to Mr. Garie that it
was getting late, and she would go; and rising, she suffered herself to be
politely bowed out of the house. In her intense anxiety to relate to her
husband the scene which had just occurred, she could not take time to go
round and through the gate, but leaped lightly over the low fence that
divided the gardens, and rushed precipitately into the presence of her
husband.

"Good heavens! George, what do you think?" she exclaimed; "I've had such a
surprise!"

"I should think that you had, judging from appearances," replied he. "Why,
your eyes are almost starting out of your head! What on earth has
happened?" he asked, as he took the shade off the lamp to get a better view
of his amiable partner.

"You would not guess in a year," she rejoined; "I never would have dreamed
it--I never was so struck in my life!"

"Struck with what? Do talk sensibly, Jule, and say what all this is about,"
interrupted her husband, in an impatient manner. "Come, out with it--what
has happened?"

"Why, would you have thought it," said she; "Mrs. Garie is a <DW65>
woman--a real <DW65>--she would be known as such anywhere?"

It was now Mr. Stevens's turn to be surprised. "Why, Jule," he exclaimed,
"you astonish me! Come, now, you're joking--you don't mean a real black
<DW65>?"

"Oh, no, not jet black--but she's dark enough. She is as dark as that Sarah
we employed as cook some time ago."

"You don't say so! Wonders will never cease--and he such a gentleman, too!"
resumed her husband.

"Yes; and it's completely sickening," continued Mrs. Stevens, "to see them
together; he calls her my dear, and is as tender and affectionate to her as
if she was a Circassian--and she nothing but a <DW65>--faugh! it's
disgusting."

Little Clarence had been standing near, unnoticed by either of them during
this conversation, and they were therefore greatly surprised when he
exclaimed, with a burst of tears, "My mother is not a <DW65> any more than
you are! How dare you call her such a bad name? I'll tell my father!"

Mr. Stevens gave a low whistle, and looking at his wife, pointed to the
door. Mrs. Stevens laid her hand on the shoulder of Clarence, and led him
to the door, saying, as she did so, "Don't come in here any more--I don't
wish you to come into my house;" and then closing it, returned to her
husband.

"You know, George," said she, "that I went in to pay her a short visit. I
hadn't the remotest idea that she was a <DW52> woman, and I commenced
giving my opinion respecting <DW65>s very freely, when suddenly her husband
called for a light, and I then saw to whom I had been talking. You may
imagine my astonishment--I was completely dumb--and it would have done you
good to have seen the air with which she left the room, after as good as
telling me to leave the house."

"Well," said Mr. Stevens, "this is what may be safely termed an unexpected
event. But, Jule," he continued, "you had better pack these young folks off
to bed, and then you can tell me the rest of it."

Clarence stood for some time on the steps of the house from which he had
been so unkindly ejected, with his little heart swelling with indignation.
He had often heard the term <DW65> used in its reproachful sense, but never
before had it been applied to him or his, at least in his presence. It was
the first blow the child received from the prejudice whose relentless hand
was destined to crush him in after-years.

It was his custom, when any little grief pressed upon his childish heart,
to go and pour out his troubles on the breast of his mother; but he
instinctively shrunk from confiding this to her; for, child as he was, he
knew it would make her very unhappy. He therefore gently stole into the
house, crept quietly up to his room, lay down, and sobbed himself to sleep.



CHAPTER XIII.

Hopes consummated.


To Emily Winston we have always accorded the title of Mrs. Garie; whilst,
in reality, she had no legal claim to it whatever.

Previous to their emigration from Georgia, Mr. Garie had, on one or two
occasions, attempted, but without success, to make her legally his wife.

He ascertained that, even if he could have found a clergyman willing to
expose himself to persecution by marrying them, the ceremony itself would
have no legal weight, as a marriage between a white and a mulatto was not
recognized as valid by the laws of the state; and he had, therefore, been
compelled to dismiss the matter from his mind, until an opportunity should
offer for the accomplishment of their wishes.

Now, however, that they had removed to the north, where they would have no
legal difficulties to encounter, he determined to put his former intention
into execution. Although Emily had always maintained a studied silence on
the subject, he knew that it was the darling wish of her heart to be
legally united to him; so he unhesitatingly proceeded to arrange matters
for the consummation of what he felt assured would promote the happiness of
both. He therefore wrote to Dr. Blackly, a distinguished clergyman of the
city, requesting him to perform the ceremony, and received from him an
assurance that he would be present at the appointed time.

Matters having progressed thus far, he thought it time to inform Emily of
what he had done. On the evening succeeding the receipt of an answer from
the Rev. Dr. Blackly--after the children had been sent to bed--he called
her to him, and, taking her hand, sat down beside her on the sofa.

"Emily," said he, as he drew her closer to him, "my dear, faithful Emily! I
am about to do you an act of justice--one, too, that I feel will increase
the happiness of us both. I am going to marry you, my darling! I am about
to give you a lawful claim to what you have already won by your
faithfulness and devotion. You know I tried, more than once, whilst in the
south, to accomplish this, but, owing to the cruel and unjust laws existing
there, I was unsuccessful. But now, love, no such difficulty exists; and
here," continued he, "is an answer to the note I have written to Dr.
Blackly, asking him to come next Wednesday night, and perform the
ceremony.--You are willing, are you not, Emily?" he asked.

"Willing!" she exclaimed, in a voice tremulous with emotion--"willing! Oh,
God! if you only knew how I have longed for it! It has been my earnest
desire for years!" and, bursting into tears, she leaned, sobbing, on his
shoulder.

After a few moments she raised her head, and, looking searchingly in his
face, she asked: "But do you do this after full reflection on the
consequences to ensue? Are you willing to sustain all the odium, to endure
all the contumely, to which your acknowledged union with one of my
unfortunate race will subject you? Clarence! it will be a severe trial--a
greater one than any you have yet endured for me--and one for which I fear
my love will prove but a poor recompense! I have thought more of these
things lately; I am older now in years and experience. There was a time
when I was vain enough to think that my affection was all that was
necessary for your happiness; but men, I know, require more to fill their
cup of content than the undivided affection of a woman, no matter how
fervently beloved. You have talents, and, I have sometimes thought,
ambition. Oh, Clarence! how it would grieve me, in after-years, to know
that you regretted that for me you had sacrificed all those views and
hopes that are cherished by the generality of your sex! Have you weighed
it well?"

"Yes, Emily--well," replied Mr. Garie; "and you know the conclusion. My
past should be a guarantee for the future. I had the world before me, and
chose you--and with, you I am contented to share my lot; and feel that I
receive, in your affection, a full reward for any of the so-called
sacrifices I may make. So, dry your tears, my dear," concluded he, "and let
us hope for nothing but an increase of happiness as the result."

After a few moments of silence, he resumed: "It will be necessary, Emily,
to have a couple of witnesses. Now, whom would you prefer? I would suggest
Mrs. Ellis and her husband. They are old friends, and persons on whose
prudence we can rely. It would not do to have the matter talked about, as
it would expose us to disagreeable comments."

Mrs. Garie agreed perfectly with him as to the selection of Mr. and Mrs.
Ellis; and immediately despatched a note to Mrs. Ellis, asking her to call
at their house on the morrow.

When she came, Emily informed her, with some confusion of manner, of the
intended marriage, and asked her attendance as witness, at the same time
informing her of the high opinion her husband entertained of their prudence
in any future discussion of the matter.

"I am really glad he is going to marry you, Emily," replied Mrs. Ellis,
"and depend upon it we will do all in our power to aid it. Only yesterday,
that inquisitive Mrs. Tiddy was at our house, and, in conversation
respecting you, asked if I knew you to be married to Mr. Garie. I turned
the conversation somehow, without giving her a direct answer. Mr. Garie, I
must say, does act nobly towards you. He must love you, Emily, for not one
white man in a thousand would make such a sacrifice for a <DW52> woman.
You can't tell how we all like him--he is so amiable, so kind in his
manner, and makes everyone so much at ease in his company. It's real good
in him, I declare, and I shall begin to have some faith in white folks,
after all.--Wednesday night," continued she; "very well--we shall be here,
if the Lord spare us;" and, kissing Emily, she hurried off, to impart the
joyful intelligence to her husband.

The anxiously looked for Wednesday evening at last arrived, and Emily
arrayed herself in a plain white dress for the occasion. Her long black
hair had been arranged in ringlets by Mrs. Ellis, who stood by, gazing
admiringly at her.

"How sweet you look, Emily--you only want a wreath of orange blossoms to
complete your appearance. Don't you feel a little nervous?" asked her
friend.

"A little excited," she answered, and her hand shook as she put back one of
the curls that had fallen across her face. Just then a loud ringing at the
door announced the arrival of Dr. Blackly, who was shown into the front
parlour.

Emily and Mrs. Ellis came down into the room where Mr. Garie was waiting
for them, whilst Mr. Ellis brought in Dr. Blackly. The reverend gentleman
gazed with some surprise at the party assembled. Mr. Garie was so
thoroughly Saxon in appearance, that no one could doubt to what race he
belonged, and it was equally evident that Emily, Mrs. Ellis, and her
husband, were <DW52> persons.

Dr. Blackly looked from one to the other with evident embarrassment, and
then said to Mr. Garie, in a low, hesitating tone:--

"I think there has been some mistake here--will you do me the favour to
step into another room?"

Mr. Garie mechanically complied, and stood waiting to learn the cause of
Dr. Blackly's strange conduct.

"You are a white man, I believe?" at last stammered forth the doctor.

"Yes, sir; I presume my appearance is a sufficient guarantee of that,"
answered Mr. Garie.

"Oh yes, I do not doubt it, and for that reason you must not be surprised
if I decline to proceed with the ceremony."

"I do not see how my being a white man can act as a barrier to its
performance," remarked Mr. Garie in reply. "It would not, sir, if all the
parties were of one complexion; but I do not believe in the propriety of
amalgamation, and on no consideration could I be induced to assist in the
union of a white man or woman with a person who has the slightest infusion
of African blood in their veins. I believe the <DW64> race," he continued,
"to be marked out by the hand of God for servitude; and you must pardon me
if I express my surprise that a gentleman of your evident intelligence
should seek such a connection--you must be labouring under some horrible
infatuation."

"Enough, sir," replied Mr. Garie, proudly; "I only regret that I did not
know it was necessary to relate every circumstance of appearance,
complexion, &c. I wished to obtain a marriage certificate, not a passport.
I mistook you for a _Christian minister_, which mistake you will please to
consider as my apology for having troubled you;" and thus speaking, he
bowed Dr. Blackly out of the house. Mr. Garie stepped back to the door of
the parlour and called out Mr. Ellis.

"We are placed in a very difficult dilemma," said he, as he was joined by
the latter. "Would you believe it? that prejudiced old sinner has actually
refused to marry us."

"It is no more than you might have expected of him--he's a thorough
<DW65>-hater--keeps a pew behind the organ of his church for <DW52>
people, and will not permit them to receive the sacrament until all the
white members of his congregation are served. Why, I don't see what on
earth induced you to send for him."

"I knew nothing of his sentiments respecting <DW52> people. I did not for
a moment have an idea that he would hesitate to marry us. There is no law
here that forbids it. What can we do?" said Mr. Garie, despairingly.

"I know a minister who will marry you with pleasure, if I can only catch
him at home; he is so much engaged in visiting the sick and other pastoral
duties."

"Do go--hunt him up, Ellis. It will be a great favour to me, if you can
induce him to come. Poor Emily--what a disappointment this will be to
her," said he, as he entered the room where she was sitting.

"What is the matter, dear?" she asked, as she observed Garie's anxious
face. "I hope there is no new difficulty."

Mr. Garie briefly explained what had just occurred, and informed her, in
addition, of Mr. Ellis having gone to see if he could get Father Banks, as
the venerable old minister was called.

"It seems, dear," said she, despondingly, "as if Providence looked
unfavourably on our design; for every time you have attempted it, we have
been in some way thwarted;" and the tears chased one another down her face,
which had grown pale in the excitement of the moment.

"Oh, don't grieve about it, dear; it is only a temporary disappointment. I
can't think all the clergymen in the city are like Dr. Blackly. Some one
amongst them will certainly oblige us. We won't despair; at least not until
Ellis comes back."

They had not very long to wait; for soon after this conversation footsteps
were heard in the garden, and Mr. Ellis entered, followed by the clergyman.

In a very short space of time they were united by Father Banks, who seemed
much affected as he pronounced his blessing upon them.

"My children," he said, tremulously, "you are entering upon a path which,
to the most favoured, is full of disappointment, care, and anxieties; but
to you who have come together under such peculiar circumstances, in the
face of so many difficulties, and in direct opposition to the prejudices of
society, it will be fraught with more danger, and open to more annoyances,
than if you were both of one race. But if men revile you, revile not again;
bear it patiently for the sake of Him who has borne so much for you. God
bless you, my children," said he, and after shaking hands with them all, he
departed.

Mr. and Mrs. Ellis took their leave soon after, and then Mrs. Garie stole
upstairs alone into the room where the children were sleeping. It seemed
to her that night that they were more beautiful than ever, as they lay in
their little beds quietly slumbering. She knelt beside them, and earnestly
prayed their heavenly Father that the union which had just been consummated
in the face of so many difficulties might prove a boon to them all.

"Where have you been, you runaway?" exclaimed her husband as she re-entered
the parlour. "You stayed away so long, I began to have all sorts of
frightful ideas--I thought of the 'mistletoe hung in the castle hall,' and
of old oak chests, and all kind of terrible things. I've been sitting here
alone ever since the Ellises went: where have you been?"

"Oh, I've been upstairs looking at the children. Bless their young hearts!
they looked so sweet and happy--and how they grow! Clarence is getting to
be quite a little man; don't you think it time, dear, that he was sent to
school? I have so much more to occupy my mind here than I had in Georgia,
so many household duties to attend to, that I am unable to give that
attention to his lessons which I feel is requisite. Besides, being so much
at home, he has associated with that wretched boy of the Stevens's, and is
growing rude and noisy; don't you think he had better be sent to school?"

"Oh yes, Emily, if you wish it," was Mr. Garie's reply. "I will search out
a school to-morrow, or next day;" and taking out his watch, he continued,
"it is near twelve o'clock--how the night has flown away--we must be off to
bed. After the excitement of the evening, and your exertions of to-day, I
fear that you will be indisposed to-morrow."

Clarence, although over nine years old, was so backward in learning, that
they were obliged to send him to a small primary school which had recently
been opened in the neighbourhood; and as it was one for children of both
sexes, it was deemed advisable to send little Em with him.

"I do so dislike to have her go," said her mother, as her husband proposed
that she should accompany Clarence; "she seems so small to be sent to
school. I'm afraid she won't be happy."

"Oh! don't give yourself the least uneasiness about her not being happy
there, for a more cheerful set of little folks I never beheld. You would be
astonished to see how exceedingly young some of them are."

"What kind of a person is the teacher?" asked Mrs. Garie.

"Oh! she's a charming little creature; the very embodiment of cheerfulness
and good humour. She has sparkling black eyes, a round rosy face, and can't
be more than sixteen, if she is that old. Had I had such a teacher when a
boy, I should have got on charmingly; but mine was a cross old widow, who
wore spectacles and took an amazing quantity of snuff, and used to flog
upon the slightest pretence. I went into her presence with fear and
trembling. I could never learn anything from her, and that must be my
excuse for my present literary short-comings. But you need have no fear
respecting Em getting on with Miss Jordan: I don't believe she could be
unkind to any one, least of all to our little darling."

"Then you will take them down in the morning," suggested Mrs. Garie; "but
on no account leave Emily unless she wishes to stay."



CHAPTER XIV.

Charlie at Warmouth.


After the departure of Mrs. Bird to visit her sick friend, Betsey turned to
Charlie and bid him follow her into the kitchen. "I suppose you haven't
been to breakfast," said she, in a patronizing manner; "if you haven't, you
are just in time, as we will be done ours in a little while, and then you
can have yours."

Charlie silently followed her down into the kitchen, where a man-servant
and the younger maid were already at breakfast; the latter arose, and was
placing another plate upon the table, when Betsey frowned and nodded
disapprovingly to her. "Let him wait," whispered she; "I'm not going to eat
with <DW65>s."

"Oh! he's such a nice little fellow," replied Eliza, in an undertone; "let
him eat with us."

Betsey here suggested to Charlie that he had better go up to the maple
chamber, wash his face, and take his things out of his trunk, and that when
his breakfast was ready she would call him.

"What on earth can induce you to want to eat with a <DW65>?" asked Betsey,
as soon as Charlie was out of hearing. "I couldn't do it; my victuals would
turn on my stomach. I never ate at the same table with a <DW65> in my
life."

"Nor I neither," rejoined Eliza; "but I see no reason why I should not. The
child appears to have good manners, he is neat and good-looking, and
because God has curled his hair more than he has ours, and made his skin a
little darker than yours or mine, that is no reason we should treat him as
if he was not a human being." Alfred, the gardener, had set down his
saucer and appeared very much astonished at this declaration of sentiment
on the part of Eliza, and sneeringly remarked, "You're an Abolitionist, I
suppose."

"No, I am not," replied she, reddening; "but I've been taught that God made
all alike; one no better than the other. You know the Bible says God is no
respecter of persons."

"Well, if it does," rejoined Alfred, with a stolid-look, "it don't say that
man isn't to be either, does it? When I see anything in my Bible that tells
me I'm to eat and drink with <DW65>s, I'll do it, and not before. I suppose
you think that all the slaves ought to be free, and all the rest of the
darned stuff these Abolitionists are preaching. Now if you want to eat with
the <DW65>, you can; nobody wants to hinder you. Perhaps he may marry you
when he grows up--don't you think you had better set your cap at him?"

Eliza made no reply to this low taunt, but ate her breakfast in silence.

"I don't see what Mrs. Bird brought him here for; she says he is sick,--had
a broken arm or something; I can't imagine what use she intends to make of
him," remarked Betsey.

"I don't think she intends him to be a servant here, at any rate," said
Eliza; "or why should she have him put in the maple chamber, when there are
empty rooms enough in the garret?"

"Well, I guess I know what she brought him for," interposed Alfred. "I
asked her before she went away to get a little boy to help me do odd jobs,
now that Reuben is about to leave; we shall want a boy to clean the boots,
run on errands, drive up the cows, and do other little chores.[*] I'm glad
he's a black boy; I can order him round more, you know, than if he was
white, and he won't get his back up half as often either. You may depend
upon it, that's what Mrs. Bird has brought him here for." The gardener,
having convinced himself that his view of the matter was the correct one,
went into the garden for his day's labour, and two or three things that he
had intended doing he left unfinished, with the benevolent intention of
setting Charlie at them the next morning.

[Footnote *: A Yankeeism, meaning little jobs about a farm.]

Charlie, after bathing his face and arranging his hair, looked from the
window at the wide expanse of country spread out before him, all bright and
glowing in the warm summer sunlight. Broad well-cultivated fields stretched
away from the foot of the garden to the river beyond, and the noise of the
waterfall, which was but a short distance off, was distinctly heard, and
the sparkling spray was clearly visible through the openings of the trees.
"What a beautiful place,--what grand fields to run in; an orchard, too,
full of blossoming fruit-trees! Well, this is nice," exclaimed Charlie, as
his eye ran over the prospect; but in the midst of his rapture came rushing
back upon him the remembrance of the cavalier treatment he had met with
below-stairs, and he said with a sigh, as the tears sprang to his eyes,
"But it is not home, after all." Just at this moment he heard his name
called by Betsey, and he hastily descended into the kitchen. At one end of
the partially-cleared table a clean plate and knife and fork had been
placed, and he was speedily helped to the remains of what the servants had
been eating.

"You mustn't be long," said Betsey, "for to-day is ironing day, and we want
the table as soon as possible."

The food was plentiful and good, but Charlie could not eat; his heart was
full and heavy,--the child felt his degradation. "Even the servants refuse
to eat with me because I am ," thought he. "Oh! I wish I was at
home!"

"Why don't you eat?" asked Betsey.

"I don't think I want any breakfast; I'm not hungry," was the reply.

"I hope you are not sulky," she rejoined; "we don't like sulky boys here;
why don't you eat?" she repeated.

The sharp, cold tones of her voice struck a chill into the child's heart,
and his lip quivered as he stammered something farther about not being
hungry; and he hurried away into the garden, where he calmed his feelings
and allayed his home-sickness by a hearty burst of tears. After this was
over, he wandered through the garden and fields until dinner; then, by
reading his book and by another walk, he managed to get through the day.

The following morning, as he was coming down stairs, he was met by Alfred,
who accosted him with, "Oh! you're up, are you; I was just going to call
you." And looking at Charlie from head to foot, he inquired, "Is that your
best suit?"

"No, it's my worst," replied Charlie. "I have two suits better than this;"
and thinking that Mrs. Bird had arrived, he continued, "I'll put on my best
if Mrs. Bird wants me."

"No, she ain't home," was the reply; "it's me that wants you; come down
here; I've got a little job for you. Take this," said he, handing him a
dirty tow apron, "and tie it around your neck; it will keep the blacking
off your clothes, you know. Now," continued he, "I want you to clean these
boots; these two pairs are Mr. Tyndall's--them you need not be particular
with; but this pair is mine, and I want 'em polished up high,--now mind, I
tell you. I'm going to wear a new pair of pants to meetin' to-morrow, and I
expect to cut a dash, so you'll do 'em up slick, now won't you?"

"I'll do my best," said Charlie, who, although he did not dislike work,
could not relish the idea of cleaning the servants' boots. "I'm afraid I
shall find this a queer place," thought he. "I shall not like living here,
I know--wait for my meals until the servants have finished, and clean their
boots into the bargain. This is worse than being with Mrs. Thomas."

Charlie, however, went at it with a will, and was busily engaged in putting
the finishing touches on Alfred's boots, when he heard his name called, and
on looking up, saw Mrs. Bird upon the piazza above. "Why, bless me!
child, what are you about?--whose boots are those, and why are you cleaning
them?"

"Oh!" he replied, his face brightening up at the sight of Mrs. Bird, "I'm
so glad you're come; those are Mr. Tyndall's boots, and these," he
continued, holding up the boots on which he was engaged, "are the
gardener's."

"And who, pray, instructed you to clean them?"

"The gardener," replied Charlie.

"He did, did he?" said Mrs. Bird, indignantly. "Very well; now do you take
off that apron and come to me immediately; before you do, however, tell
Alfred I want him."

Charlie quickly divested himself of the tow apron, and after having
informed the gardener that Mrs. Bird desired his presence in the parlour,
he ran up there himself. Alfred came lumbering up stairs, after giving his
boots an unusual scraping and cleansing preparatory to entering upon that
part of the premises which to him was generally forbidden ground.

"By whose direction did you set the child at that dirty work?" asked Mrs.
Bird, after he had entered the room.

"I hadn't anybody's direction to set him to work, but I thought you brought
him here to do odd jobs. You know, ma'am, I asked you some time ago to get
a boy, and I thought this was the one."

"And if he had been, you would have taken a great liberty in assigning him
any duties without first consulting me. But he is not a servant here, nor
do I intend him to be such; and let me inform you, that instead of his
cleaning your boots, it will be your duty henceforth to clean his. Now,"
continued she, "you know his position here, let me see that you remember
yours. You can go." This was said in so peremptory a manner, as to leave no
room for discussion or rejoinder, and Alfred, with a chagrined look, went
muttering down stairs.

"Things have come to a pretty pass," grumbled he. "I'm to wait on <DW65>s,
black their boots, and drive them out, too, I suppose. I'd leave at once if
it wasn't such a good situation. Drat the old picture--what has come over
her I wonder--she'll be asking old Aunt Charity, the black washerwoman to
dine with her next. She has either gone crazy or turned abolitionist, I
don't know which; something has happened to her, that's certain."

"Now, Charlie," said Mrs. Bird, as the door closed upon the crest-fallen
gardener, "go to your room and dress yourself nicely. After I've eaten my
breakfast, I am going to visit a friend, and I want you to accompany me;
don't be long."

"Can't I eat mine first, Mrs. Bird?" he asked, in reply.

"I thought you had had yours, long ago," rejoined she.

"The others hadn't finished theirs when you called me, and I don't get mine
until they have done," said Charlie.

"Until they have done; how happens that?" asked Mrs. Bird.

"I think they don't like to eat with me, because I'm ," was
Charlie's hesitating reply.

"That is too much," exclaimed Mrs. Bird; "if it were not so very
ridiculous, I should be angry. It remains for me, then," continued she, "to
set them an example. I've not eaten my breakfast yet--come, sit down with
me, and we'll have it together."

Charlie followed Mrs. Bird into the breakfast-room, and took the seat
pointed out by her. Eliza, when she entered with the tea-urn, opened her
eyes wide with astonishment at the singular spectacle she beheld. Her
mistress sitting down to breakfast _vis-a-vis_ to a little <DW52> boy!
Depositing the urn upon the table, she hastened back to the kitchen to
report upon the startling events that were occurring in the breakfast-room.

"Well, I never," said she; "that beats anything I ever did see; why, Mrs.
Bird must have turned abolitionist. Charlie is actually sitting at the same
table with her, eating his breakfast as natural and unconcerned as if he
was as white as snow! Wonders never will cease. You see I'm right though. I
said that child wasn't brought here for a servant--we've done it for
ourselves now--only think how mad she'll be when she finds he was made to
wait for his meals until we have done. I'm glad I wasn't the one who
refused to eat with him."

"I guess she has been giving Alfred a blowing up," said Betsy, "for setting
him at boot cleaning; for he looked like a thunder-cloud when he came down
stairs, and was muttering something about a consarned pet-<DW65>--he looked
anything but pleased."

Whilst the lower powers were discussing what they were pleased to regard as
an evidence of some mental derangement on the part of Mrs. Bird, that lady
was questioning Charlie respecting his studies, and inquired if he would
like to go to school in Warmouth.

"After a while, I think I should," he replied; "but for a week I'd like to
be free to run about the fields and go fishing, and do lots of things. This
is such a pretty place; and now that you have come I shall have nice
times--I know I shall."

"You seem to have great confidence in my ability to make you happy. How do
you know that I am as kind as you seem to suppose?" asked Mrs. Bird, with a
smile.

"I know you are," answered Charlie, confidently; "you speak so pleasantly
to me. And do you know, Mrs. Bird," continued he, "that I liked you from
the first day, when you praised me so kindly when I recited my lessons
before you. Did you ever have any little boys of your own?"

A change immediately came over the countenance of Mrs. Bird, as she
replied: "Oh, yes, Charlie; a sweet, good boy about your own age:" and the
tears stood in her eyes as she continued. "He accompanied his father to
England years ago--the ship in which they sailed was never heard of--his
name was Charlie too."

"I didn't know that, or I should not have asked," said Charlie, with some
embarrassment of manner caused by the pain he saw he had inflicted. "I am
very sorry," he continued.

Mrs. Bird motioned him to finish his breakfast, and left the table without
drinking the tea she had poured out for herself.

There were but one or two families of <DW52> people living in the small
town of Warmouth, and they of a very humble description; their faces were
familiar to all the inhabitants, and their appearance was in accordance
with their humble condition. Therefore, when Charlie made his debut, in
company with Mrs. Bird, his dress and manners differed so greatly from what
they were accustomed to associate with persons of his complexion, that he
created quite a sensation in the streets of the usually quiet and obscure
little town.

He was attired with great neatness; and not having an opportunity of
playing marbles in his new suit, it still maintained its spotless
appearance. The fine grey broadcloth coat and pants fitted him to a nicety,
the jaunty cap was set slightly on one side of his head giving him, a
somewhat saucy look, and the fresh colour now returning to his cheeks
imparted to his face a much healthier appearance than it had worn for
months.

He and his kind friend walked on together for some time, chatting about the
various things that attracted their attention on the way, until they
reached a cottage in the garden of which a gentleman was busily engaged in
training a rosebush upon a new trellis.

So completely was he occupied with his pursuit that he did not observe the
entrance of visitors, and quite started when he was gently tapped upon the
shoulder by Mrs. Bird.

"How busy we are," said she, gaily, at the same time extending her
hand--"so deeply engaged, that we can scarcely notice old friends that we
have not seen for months."

"Indeed, this is a pleasant surprise," he remarked, when he saw by whom he
had been interrupted. "When did you arrive?"

"Only this morning; and, as usual, I have already found something with
which to bore you--you know, Mr. Whately, I always have something to
trouble you about."

"Don't say trouble, my dear Mrs. Bird; if you will say 'give me something
to occupy my time usefully and agreeably,' you will come much nearer the
mark. But who is this you have with you?"

"Oh, a little _protege_ of mine, poor little fellow--he met with a sad
accident recently--he broke his arm; and I have brought him down here to
recruit. Charlie, walk around and look at the garden--I have a little
matter of business to discuss with Mr. Whately, and when we shall have
finished I will call you."

Mr. Whately led the way into his library, and placing a seat for Mrs. Bird,
awaited her communication.

"You have great influence with the teacher of the academy, I believe," said
she.

"A little," replied Mr. Whately, smiling.

"Not a little," rejoined Mrs. Bird, "but a great deal; and, my dear Mr.
Whately, I want you to exercise it in my behalf. I wish to enter as a
scholar that little boy I brought with me this morning."

"Impossible!" said Mr. Whately. "My good friend, the boy is !"

"I am well aware of that," continued Mrs. Bird; "if he were not there would
not be the least trouble about his admission; nor am I sure there will be
as it is, if you espouse his cause. One who has been such a benefactor to
the academy as yourself, could, I suppose, accomplish anything."

"Yes; but that is stretching my influence unduly. I would be willing to
oblige you in almost anything else, but I hesitate to attempt this. Why not
send him to the public school?--they have a separate bench for black
children; he can be taught there all that is necessary for him to know."

"He is far in advance of any of the scholars there. I attended the
examination of the school to which he was attached," said Mrs. Bird, "and I
was very much surprised at the acquirements of the pupils; this lad was
distinguished above all the rest--he answered questions that would have
puzzled older heads, with the greatest facility. I am exceedingly anxious
to get him admitted to the academy, as I am confident he will do honour to
the interest I take in him."

"And a very warm interest it must be, my dear Mrs. Bird, to induce you to
attempt placing him in such an expensive and exclusive school. I am very
much afraid you will have to give it up: many of the scholars' parents, I
am sure, will object strenuously to the admission of a <DW52> boy as a
scholar."

"Only tell me that you will propose him, and I will risk the refusal,"
replied Mrs. Bird--"it can be tried at all events; and if you will make the
effort I shall be under deep obligations to you."

"Well, Mrs. Bird, let us grant him admitted--what benefit can accrue to the
lad from an education beyond his station? He cannot enter into any of the
learned professions: both whilst he is there, and after his education is
finished, he will be like a fish out of water. You must pardon me if I say
I think, in this case, your benevolence misdirected. The boy's parents are
poor, I presume?"

"They certainly are not rich," rejoined Mrs. Bird; "and it is for that
reason I wish to do all that I can for him. If I can keep him with me, and
give him a good education, it may be greatly for his advantage; there may
be a great change in public sentiment before he is a man--we cannot say
what opening there may be for him in the future."

"Not unless it changes very much. I never knew prejudice more rampant than
it is at this hour. To get the boy admitted as a right is totally out of
the question: if he is received at all, it will be as a special favour, and
a favour which--I am sure it will require all my influence to obtain. I
will set about it immediately, and, rely upon it, I will do my best for
your _protege_."

Satisfied with the promise, which was as much as Mrs. Bird had dared to
hope for, she called Charlie, then shook hands with Mr. Whately and
departed.



CHAPTER XV.

Mrs. Stevens gains a Triumph.


The Garies had now become thoroughly settled in Philadelphia, and, amongst
the people of colour, had obtained a very extensive and agreeable
acquaintance.

At the South Mr. Garie had never borne the reputation of an active person.
Having an ample fortune and a thoroughly Southern distaste for labour, he
found it by no means inconvenient or unpleasant to have so much time at his
disposal. His newspaper in the morning, a good book, a stroll upon the
fashionable promenade, and a ride at dusk, enabled him to dispose of his
time without being oppressed with _ennui_.

It was far happier for him that such was his disposition, as his domestic
relations would have been the means of subjecting him to many unpleasant
circumstances, from which his comparative retirement in a great measure
screened him.

Once or twice since his settlement in the North his feelings had been
ruffled, by the sneering remarks of some of his former friends upon the
singularity of his domestic position; but his irritation had all fled
before the smiles of content and happiness that beamed from the faces of
his wife and children.

Mrs. Garie had nothing left to wish for; she was surrounded by every
physical comfort and in the enjoyment of frequent intercourse with
intelligent and refined people, and had been greatly attracted toward
Esther Ellis with whom she had become very intimate.

One morning in November, these two were in the elegant little bed-room of
Mrs. Garie, where a fire had been kindled, as the weather was growing very
chilly and disagreeable. "It begins to look quite like autumn," said Mrs.
Garie, rising and looking out of the window. "The chrysanthemums are
drooping and withered, and the dry leaves are whirling and skimming through
the air. I wonder," she continued, "if the children were well wrapped up
this morning?"

"Oh, yes; I met them at the corner, on their way to school, looking as warm
and rosy as possible. What beautiful children they are! Little Em has
completely won my heart; it really seems a pity for her to be put on the
shelf, as she must be soon."

"How--what do you mean?" asked Mrs. Garie.

"Oh, this will explain," archly rejoined Esther, as she held up to view one
of the tiny lace trimmed frocks that she was making in anticipation of the
event that has been previously hinted.

Mrs. Garie laughed, and turned to look out of the window again.

"Do you know I found little Lizzy Stevens, your neighbour's daughter,
shivering upon the steps in a neighbouring street, fairly blue with cold?
She was waiting there for Clarence and Em. I endeavoured to persuade her to
go on without them, but she would not. From what I could understand, she
waits for them there every day."

"Her mother cannot be aware of it, then; for she has forbidden her children
to associate with mine," rejoined Mrs. Garie. "I wonder she permits her
little girl to go to the same school. I don't think she knows it, or it is
very likely she would take her away."

"Has she ever spoken to you since the night of her visit?" asked Esther.

"Never! I have seen her a great many times since; she never speaks, nor do
I. There she goes now. That," continued Mrs. Garie, with a smile, "is
another illustration of the truthfulness of the old adage, 'Talk of--well,
I won't say who,--'and he is sure to appear.'" And, thus speaking, she
turned from the window, and was soon deeply occupied in the important work
of preparing for the expected little stranger. Mrs. Garie was mistaken in
her supposition that Mrs. Stevens was unaware that Clarence and little Em
attended the same school to which her own little girl had been sent; for
the evening before the conversation we have just narrated, she had been
discussing the matter with her husband.

"Here," said she to him, "is Miss Jordan's bill for the last quarter. I
shall never pay her another; I am going to remove Lizzy from that school."

"Remove her! what for? I thought I heard you say, Jule, that the child got
on excellently well there,--that she improved very fast?"

"So she does, as far as learning is concerned; but she is sitting right
next to one of those Garie children, and that is an arrangement I don't at
all fancy. I don't relish the idea of my child attending the same school
that <DW65>s do; so I've come to the determination to take her away."

"I should do no such thing," coolly remarked Mr. Stevens. "I should compel
the teacher to dismiss the Garies, or I should break up her school. Those
children have no right to be there whatever. I don't care a straw how light
their complexions are, they are <DW65>s nevertheless, and ought to go to a
<DW65> school; they are no better than any other <DW52> children. I'll
tell you what you can do, Jule," continued he: "call on Mrs. Kinney, the
Roths, and one or two others, and induce them to say that if Miss Jordan
won't dismiss the Garies that they will withdraw their children; and you
know if they do, it will break up the school entirely. If it was any other
person's children but his, I would wink at it; but I want to give him a
fall for his confounded haughtiness. Just try that plan, Jule, and you will
be sure to succeed."

"I am not so certain about it, Stevens. Miss Jordan, I learn, is very fond
of their little Em. I must say I cannot wonder at it. She is the most
loveable little creature I ever saw. I will say that, if her mother is a
<DW65>."

"Yes, Jule, all that may be; but I know the world well enough to judge
that, when she becomes fully assured that it will conflict with her
interests to keep them, she will give them up. She is too poor to be
philanthropic, and, I believe, has sufficient good sense to know it."

"Well, I'll try your plan," said Mrs. Stevens; "I will put matters in train
to-morrow morning."

Early the next morning, Mrs. Stevens might have been seen directing her
steps to the house of Mrs. Kinney, with whom she was very intimate. She
reached it just as that lady was departing to preside at a meeting of a
female missionary society for evangelizing the Patagonians.

"I suppose you have come to accompany me to the meeting," said she to Mrs.
Stevens, as soon as they had exchanged the usual courtesies.

"Oh, dear, no; I wish I was," she replied. "I've got a troublesome little
matter on my hands; and last night my husband suggested my coming to ask
your advice respecting it. George has such a high opinion of your judgment,
that he would insist on my troubling you."

Mrs. Kinney smiled, and looked gratified at this tribute to her importance.

"And moreover," continued Mrs. Stevens, "it's a matter in which your
interest, as well as our own, is concerned."

Mrs. Kinney now began to look quite interested, and, untying the strings of
her bonnet, exclaimed, "Dear me, what can it be?"

"Knowing," said Mrs. Stevens, "that you entertain just the same sentiments
that we do relative to associating with <DW52> people, I thought I would
call and ask if you were aware that Miss Jordan receives  as well
as white children in her school."

"Why, no! My dear Mrs. Stevens, you astound me. I hadn't the remotest idea
of such a thing. It is very strange my children never mentioned it."

"Oh, children are so taken up with their play, they forget such things,"
rejoined Mrs. Stevens. "Now," continued she, "husband said he was quite
confident you would not permit your children to continue their attendance
after this knowledge came to your ears. We both thought it would be a pity
to break up the poor girl's school by withdrawing our children without
first ascertaining if she would expel the little <DW54>s. I knew, if I
could persuade you to let me use your name as well as ours, and say that
you will not permit your children to continue at her school unless she
consents to our wishes, she, knowing the influence you possess, would, I am
sure, accede to our demands immediately."

"Oh, you are perfectly at liberty to use my name, Mrs. Stevens, and say all
that you think necessary to effect your object. But do excuse me for
hurrying off," she continued, looking at her watch: "I was to have been at
the meeting at ten o'clock, and it is now half-past. I hope you won't fail
to call, and let me know how you succeed;" and, with her heart overflowing
with tender care for the poor Patagonian, Mrs. Kinney hastily departed.

"That's settled," soliloquized Mrs. Stevens, with an air of intense
satisfaction, as she descended the steps--"her four children would make a
serious gap in the little school; and now, then," continued she, "for the
Roths."

Mrs. Stevens found not the slightest difficulty in persuading Mrs. Roth to
allow her name to be used, in connection with Mrs. Kinney's, in the threat
to withdraw their children if the little Garies were not immediately
expelled. Mrs. Roth swore by Mrs. Kinney, and the mere mention of that
lady's name was sufficient to enlist her aid.

Thus armed, Mrs. Stevens lost no time in paying a visit to Miss Jordan's
school. As she entered, the busy hum of childish voices was somewhat
stilled; and Lizzy Stevens touched little Em, who sat next her, and
whispered, "There is my mother."

Mrs. Stevens was welcomed very cordially by Miss Jordan, who offered her
the seat of honour beside her.

"Your school seems quite flourishing," she remarked, after looking around
the room, "and I really regret being obliged to make a gap in your
interesting circle."

"I hope you don't intend to deprive me of your little girl," inquired Miss
Jordan; "I should regret to part with her--not only because I am very fond
of her, but in consideration of her own interest--she is coming on so
rapidly."

"Oh, I haven't the slightest fault to find with her progress. _That_," said
she, "is not the reason. I have another, of much more weight. Of course,
every one is at liberty to do as they choose; and we have no right to
dictate to you what description of scholars you should receive; but, if
they are not such, as we think proper companions for our children, you
can't complain if we withdraw them."

"I really do not understand you, Mrs. Stevens," said the teacher, with an
astonished look: "I have none here but the children of the most respectable
persons--they are all as well behaved as school children generally are."

"I did not allude to behaviour; that, for all that I know to the contrary,
is irreproachable; it is not character that is in question, but colour. I
don't like my daughter to associate with <DW52> children."

"<DW52> children!" repeated the now thoroughly bewildered
teacher--"<DW52> children! My dear madam," continued she, smiling, "some
one has been hoaxing you--I have no  pupils--I could not be induced
to receive one on any account."

"I am very glad to hear you say so," rejoined Mrs. Stevens, "for that
convinces me that my fears were groundless. I was under the impression you
had imbibed some of those pestilent abolition sentiments coming into vogue.
I see you are not aware of it, but you certainly have two 
scholars; and there," said she, pointing to Clarence, "is one of them."

Clarence, who, with his head bent over his book, was sitting so near as to
overhear a part of this conversation, now looked up, and found the cold,
malignant, grey eyes of Mrs. Stevens fastened on him. He looked at her for
a moment--then apparently resumed his studies.

The poor boy had, when she entered the room, an instinctive knowledge that
her visit boded no good to them. He was beginning to learn the anomalous
situation he was to fill in society. He had detested Mrs. Stevens ever
since the night she had ejected him so rudely from her house, and since
then had learned to some extent what was meant by the term _nigger woman_.

"You must certainly be misinformed," responded Miss Jordan. "I know their
father--he has frequently been here. He is a Southerner, a thorough
gentleman in his manners; and, if ever a man was white, I am sure he is."

"Have you seen their mother?" asked Mrs. Stevens, significantly.

"No, I never have," replied Miss Jordan; "she is in poor health; but she
must unquestionably be a white woman--a glance at the children ought to
convince you of that."

"It might, if I had not seen her, and did not know her to be a <DW52>
woman. You see, my dear Miss Jordan," continued she, in her blandest tone,
"I am their next-door neighbour and have seen their mother twenty times and
more; she is a <DW52> woman beyond all doubt."

"I never could have dreamed of such a thing!" exclaimed Miss Jordan, as an
anxious look overspread her face; then, after a pause, she continued: "I do
not see what I am to do--it is really too unfortunate--I don't know how to
act. It seems unjust and unchristian to eject two such children from my
school, because their mother has the misfortune to have a few drops of
African blood in her veins. I cannot make up my mind to do it. Why, you
yourself must admit that they are as white as any children in the room."

"I am willing to acknowledge they are; but they have <DW65> blood in them,
notwithstanding; and they are, therefore, as much <DW65>s as the blackest,
and have no more right to associate with white children than if they were
black as ink. I have no more liking for white <DW65>s than for black ones."

The teacher was perplexed, and, turning to Mrs. Stevens, said, imploringly:
"This matter seems only known to you; let me appeal to your generosity--say
nothing more about it. I will try to keep your daughter away from them, if
you wish--but pray do not urge me to the performance of an act that I am
conscious would be unjust."

Mrs. Stevens's face assumed a severe and disagreeable expression. "I hoped
you would look at this matter in a reasonable light, and not compel those
who would be your friends to appear in the light of enemies. If this matter
was known to me alone, I should remove my daughter and say nothing more
about it; but, unfortunately for you, I find that, by some means or other,
both Mrs. Kinney and Mrs. Roth have become informed of the circumstance,
and are determined to take their children away. I thought I would act a
friend's part by you, and try to prevail on you to dismiss these two
<DW52> children at once. I so far relied upon your right judgment as to
assure them that you would not hesitate for a moment to comply with their
wishes; and I candidly tell you, that it was only by my so doing that they
were prevented from keeping their children at home to-day."

Miss Jordan looked aghast at this startling intelligence; if Mrs. Roth and
Mrs. Kinney withdrew their patronage and influence, her little school (the
sole support of her mother and herself) would be well-nigh broken up.

She buried her face in her hands, and sat in silence for a few seconds;
then looking at Mrs. Stevens, with tearful eyes, exclaimed, "God forgive me
if it must be so; nothing but the utter ruin that stares me in the face if
I refuse induces me to accede to your request."

"I am sorry that you distress yourself so much about it. You know you are
your own mistress, and can do as you choose," said Mrs. Stevens; "but if
you will be advised by me, you will send them away at once."

"After school I will," hesitatingly replied Miss Jordan.

"I hate to appear so pressing," resumed Mrs. Stevens; "but I feel it my
duty to suggest that you had better do it at once, and before the rest of
the scholars. I did not wish, to inform you to what extent this thing had
gone; but it really has been talked of in many quarters, and it is
generally supposed that you are cognisant of the fact that the Garies are
; therefore you see the necessity of doing something at once to
vindicate yourself from the reproach of abolitionism."

At the pronunciation of this then terrible word in such connection with
herself, Miss Jordan turned quite pale, and for a moment struggled to
acquire sufficient control of her feelings to enable her to do as Mrs.
Stevens suggested; at last, bursting into tears, she said, "Oh, I
cannot--will not--do it. I'll dismiss them, but not in that unfeeling
manner; that I cannot do."

The children were now entirely neglecting their lessons, and seemed much
affected by Miss Jordan's tears, of which they could not understand the
cause. She observing this, rang the bell, the usual signal for
intermission.

Mrs. Stevens, satisfied with the triumph she had effected, took leave of
Miss Jordan, after commending her for the sensible conclusion at which she
had arrived, and promising to procure her two more pupils in the room of
those she was about to dismiss.

Miss Jordan was a long time writing the note that she intended sending to
Mr. Garie; and one of the elder girls returned to the school-room,
wondering at the unusually long time that had been given for recreation.

"Tell Clarence and his sister to come here," said she to the girl who had
just entered; and whilst they were on their way upstairs, she folded the
note, and was directing it when Clarence entered.

"Clarence," said she, in a soft voice, "put on your hat; I have a note of
some importance for you to take to your father--your father remember--don't
give it to any one else." Taking out her watch, she continued, "It is now
so late that you would scarcely get back before the time for dismissal, so
you had better take little Emily home with you."

"I hope, ma'am, I haven't done anything wrong?" asked Clarence.

"Oh, no!" quickly replied she; "you're a dear, good boy, and have never
given me a moment's pain since you came to the school." And she hurried out
into the hall to avoid farther questioning.

She could not restrain the tears as she dressed little Em, whose eyes were
large with astonishment at being sent home from school at so early an hour.

"Teacher, is school out?" asked she.

"No, dear, not quite; I wanted to send a note to your pa, and so I have let
Clary go home sooner than usual," replied Miss Jordan, kissing her
repeatedly, whilst the tears were trickling down her cheek.

"Don't cry, teacher, I love you," said the little blue-eyed angel, whose
lip began to quiver in sympathy; "don't cry, I'll come back again
to-morrow."

This was too much for the poor teacher, who clasped the child in her arms,
and gave way to a burst of uncontrollable sorrow. At last, conquering
herself with an effort, she led the children down stairs, kissed them both
again, and then opening the door she turned them forth into the
street--turned away from her school these two little children, such as God
received into his arms and blessed, because they were the children of a
"_nigger woman_."



CHAPTER XVI.

Mr. Stevens makes a Discovery.


"Well, Jule, old Aunt Tabitha is gone at last, and I am not at all sorry
for it, I assure you; she's been a complete tax upon me for the last eight
years. I suppose you won't lament much, nor yet go into mourning for her,"
continued Mr. Stevens, looking at her jocularly.

"I'm not sorry, that I admit," rejoined Mrs. Stevens; "the poor old soul is
better off, no doubt; but then there's no necessity to speak of the matter
in such an off-hand manner."

"Now, Jule, I beg you won't attempt to put on the sanctified; that's too
much from you, who have been wishing her dead almost every day for the last
eight years. Why, don't you remember you wished her gone when she had a
little money to leave; and when she lost that, you wished her off our hands
because she had none. Don't pretend to be in the least depressed; that
won't do with me."

"Well, never mind that," said Mrs. Stevens, a little confused; "what has
become of her things--her clothing, and furniture?"

"I've ordered the furniture to be sold; and all there is of it will not
realize sufficient to pay her funeral expenses. Brixton wrote me that she
has left a bundle of letters directed to me, and I desired him to send them
on."

"I wonder what they can be," said Mrs. Stevens.

"Some trash, I suppose; an early love correspondence, of but little value
to any one but herself. I do not expect that they will prove of any
consequence whatever."

"Don't you think one or the other of us should go to the funeral?" asked
Mrs. Stevens. "Nonsense. No! I have no money to expend in that way--it is
as much as I can do to provide comfortably for the living, without spending
money to follow the dead," replied he; "and besides, I have a case coming
on in the Criminal Court next week that will absorb all my attention."

"What kind of a case is it?" she inquired.

"A murder case. Some Irishmen were engaged in a row, when one of the party
received a knock on his head that proved too much for him, and died in
consequence. My client was one of the contending parties; and has been
suspected, from some imprudent expressions of his, to have been the man who
struck the fatal blow. His preliminary examination comes off to-morrow or
next day, and I must be present as a matter of course."

At an early hour of the morning succeeding this conversation, Mr. Stevens
might have been seen in his dingy office, seated at a rickety desk which
was covered with various little bundles, carefully tied with red tape. The
room was gloomy and cheerless, and had a mouldy disagreeable atmosphere. A
fire burned in the coal stove, which, however, seemed only to warm, but did
not dry the apartment; and the windows were covered with a thin coating of
vapour.

Mr. Stevens was busily engaged in writing, when hearing footsteps behind
him, he turned and saw Mr. Egan, a friend of his client, entering the room.

"Good morning, Mr. Egan," said he, extending his hand; "how is our friend
McCloskey this morning?"

"Oh, it's far down in the mouth he is, be jabers--the life a'most scared
out of him!"

"Tell him to keep up a good heart and not to be frightened at trifles,"
laughingly remarked Mr. Stevens.

"Can't your honour come and see him?" asked Egan.

"I can't do that; but I'll give you a note to Constable Berry, and he will
bring McCloskey in here as he takes him to court;" and Mr. Stevens
immediately wrote the note, which Egan received and departed.

After the lapse of a few hours, McCloskey was brought by the accommodating
constable to the office of Mr. Stevens. "He'll be safe with you, I
suppose, Stevens;" said the constable, "but then there is no harm in seeing
for one's self that all's secure;" and thus speaking, he raised the window
and looked into the yard below. The height was too great for his prisoner
to escape in that direction; then satisfying himself that the other door
only opened into a closet, he retired, locking Mr. Stevens and his client
in the room.

Mr. Stevens arose as soon as the door closed behind the constable, and
stuffed a piece of damp sponge into the keyhole; he then returned and took
a seat by his client.

"Now, McCloskey," said he, in a low tone, as he drew his chair closely in
front of the prisoner, and fixed his keen grey eyes on him--"I've seen
Whitticar. And I tell you what it is--you're in a very tight place. He's
prepared to swear that he saw you with a slung shot in your hand--that he
saw you drop it after the man fell; he picked it up, and whilst the man was
lying dead at his tavern, awaiting the coroner's inquest, he examined the
wound, and saw in the skull two little dents or holes, which were
undoubtedly made by the little prongs that are on the leaden ball of the
weapon, as they correspond in depth and distance apart; and, moreover, the
ball is attached to a twisted brace which proves to be the fellow to the
one found upon a pair of your trousers. What can you say to all this?"

McCloskey here gave a smothered groan, and his usually red face grew deadly
pale in contemplation of his danger.

"Now," said Mr. Stevens, after waiting long enough for his revelation to
have its due effect upon him, "there is but one thing to be done. We must
buy Whitticar off. Have you got any money? I don't mean fifty or a hundred
dollars--that would be of no more use than as many pennies. We must have
something of a lump--three or four hundred at the very least."

The prisoner drew his breath very hard at this, and remained silent.

"Come, speak out," continued Mr. Stevens, "circumstances won't admit of
our delaying--this man's friends will raise Heaven and earth to secure your
conviction; so you see, my good fellow, it's your money or your life. You
can decide between the two--you know which is of the most importance to
you."

"God save us, squire! how am I to raise that much money? I haven't more nor
a hunther dollars in the world."

"You've got a house, and a good horse and dray," replied Mr. Stevens, who
was well posted in the man's pecuniary resources. "If you expect me to get
you out of this scrape, you must sell or mortgage your house, and dispose
of your horse and dray. Somehow or other four hundred dollars must be
raised, or you will be dangling at a rope's end in less than six months."

"I suppose it will have to go then," said McCloskey, reluctantly.

"Then give me authority," continued Mr. Stevens, "to arrange for the
disposal of the property, and I will have your affairs all set straight in
less than no time."

The constable here cut short any further colloquy by rapping impatiently on
the door, then opening it, and exclaiming, "Come, now it is ten
o'clock--time that you were in court;" and the two started out, followed by
Mr. Stevens.

After having, by some of those mysterious plans with which lawyers are
familiar, been enabled to put off the examination for a few days, Mr.
Stephens returned to his office, and found lying upon his table the packet
of letters he was expecting from New York.

Upon breaking the seal, and tearing off the outer covering, he discovered a
number of letters, time-worn and yellow with age; they were tied tightly
together with a piece of cord; cutting this, they fell scattered over the
desk.

Taking one of them up, he examined it attentively, turning it from side to
side to endeavour to decipher the half-effaced post-mark. "What a ninny I
am, to waste time in looking at the cover of this, when the contents will,
no doubt, explain the whole matter?" Thus soliloquising he opened the
letter, and was soon deeply absorbed in its contents. He perused and
re-perused it; then opened, one after another, the remainder that lay
scattered before him. Their contents seemed to agitate him exceedingly; as
he walked up and down the room with hasty strides, muttering angrily to
himself, and occasionally returning to the desk to re-peruse the letters
which had so strangely excited him.

Whilst thus engaged, the door was opened by no less a personage than Mr.
Morton, who walked in and seated himself in a familiar manner.

"Oh, how are you, Morton. You entered with such a ghostly tread, that I
scarcely heard you," said Mr. Stevens, with a start; "what has procured me
the honour of a visit from you this morning?"

"I was strolling by, and thought I would just step in and inquire how that
matter respecting the Tenth-street property has succeeded."

"Not at all--the old fellow is as obstinate as a mule; he won't sell except
on his own terms, which are entirely out of all reason. I am afraid you
will be compelled to abandon your building speculation in that quarter
until his demise--he is old and feeble, and can't last many years; in the
event of his death you may be able to effect some more favourable
arrangement with his heirs."

"And perhaps have ten or fifteen years to wait--no, that won't do. I'd
better sell out myself. What would you, advise me to do, Stevens?"

Mr. Stevens was silent for a few moments; then having opened the door and
looked into the entry, he closed it carefully, placed the piece of sponge
in the key-hole, and returned to his seat at the desk, saying:--

"We've transacted enough business together to know one another pretty well.
So I've no hesitation in confiding to you a little scheme I've conceived
for getting into our hands a large proportion of property in one of the
lower districts, at a very low figure; and 'tis probable, that the same
plan, if it answers, will assist you materially in carrying out your
designs. It will require the aid of two or three moneyed men like yourself;
and, if successful, will without doubt be highly remunerative."

"If successful," rejoined Mr. Morton; "yes, there is the rub. How are you
to guarantee success?"

"Hear my plan, and then you can decide. In the first place, you know as
well as I that a very strong feeling exists in the community against the
Abolitionists, and very properly too; this feeling requires to be guided
into some proper current, and I think we can give it that necessary
guidance, and at the same time render it subservient to our own purposes.
You are probably aware that a large amount of property in the lower part of
the city is owned by <DW65>s; and if we can create a mob and direct it
against them, they will be glad to leave that quarter, and remove further
up into the city for security and protection. Once get the mob thoroughly
aroused, and have the leaders under our control, and we may direct its
energies against any parties we desire; and we can render the district so
unsafe, that property will be greatly lessened in value--the houses will
rent poorly, and many proprietors will be happy to sell at very reduced
prices. If you can furnish me the means to start with, I have men enough at
my command to effect the rest. We will so control the elections in the
district, through these men, as to place in office only such persons as
will wink at the disturbances. When, through their agency, we have brought
property down sufficiently low, we will purchase all that we can,
re-establish order and quiet, and sell again at an immense advantage."

"Your scheme is a good one, I must confess, and I am ready to join you at
any time. I will communicate with Carson, who, I think, will be interested,
as he desired to invest with me in those Tenth-street improvements. I will
call in to-morrow, and endeavour to persuade him to accompany me, and then
we can discuss the matter more fully."

"Well, do; but one word before you go. You appear to know everybody--who
is anybody--south of Mason and Dixon's line; can you give me any
information respecting a family by the name of Garie, who live or formerly
did live in the vicinity of Savannah?"

"Oh, yes--I know them, root and branch; although there is but little of the
latter left; they are one of the oldest families in Georgia--those of whom
I have heard the most are of the last two generations. There now remain of
the family but two persons--old John or Jack Garie as he is called, a
bachelor--and who I have recently learned is at the point of death; and a
crack-brained nephew of his, living in this city--said to be married to a
<DW65> woman--actually married to her. Dr. Blackly informed me last week,
that he sent for him to perform the ceremony, which he very properly
refused to do. I have no doubt, however, that he has been successful in
procuring the services of some one else. I am sorry to say, there are some
clergymen in our city who would willingly assist in such a disgraceful
proceeding. What ever could have induced a man with his prospects to throw
himself away in that manner, I am at loss to determine--he has an
independent fortune of about one hundred thousand dollars, besides
expectations from his uncle, who is worth a considerable sum of money. I
suppose these little <DW54>s of his will inherit it," concluded Mr. Morton.

"Are there no other heirs?" asked Mr. Stevens, in a tone of deep interest.

"There may be. He had an aunt, who married an exceedingly low fellow from
the North, who treated her shamefully. The mercenary scoundrel no doubt
expected to have acquired a fortune with her, as it was generally
understood that she was sole heiress of her mother's property--but it
turned out to be an entire mistake. The circumstance made considerable stir
at the time. I remember having heard my elders discuss it some years after
its occurrence. But why do you take such an interest in it? You charged me
with coming upon you like a ghost. I could return the compliment. Why, man,
you look like a sheet. What ails you?" "Me!--I--oh, nothing--nothing! I'm
perfectly well--that is to say, I was up rather late last night, and am
rather fatigued to day--nothing more."

"You looked so strange, that I could not help being frightened--and you
seemed so interested. You must have some personal motive for inquiring."

"No more than a lawyer often has in the business of his clients. I have
been commissioned to obtain some information respecting these people--a
mere matter of business, nothing more, believe me. Call in again soon, and
endeavour to bring Carson; but pray be discreet--be very careful to whom
you mention the matter."

"Never fear," said Mr. Morton, as he closed the door behind him, and
sauntered lazily out of the house.

Mr. Morton speculated in stocks and town-lots in the same spirit that he
had formerly betted at the racecourse and cockpit in his dear Palmetto
State. It was a pleasant sort of excitement to him, and without excitement
of some kind, he would have found it impossible to exist. To have
frequented gaming hells and race courses in the North would have greatly
impaired his social position; and as he set a high value upon that he was
compelled to forego his favourite pursuits, and associate himself with a
set of men who conducted a system of gambling operations upon 'Change, of a
less questionable but equally exciting character.

Mr. Stevens sat musing at his desk for some time after the departure of his
visitor; then, taking up one of the letters that had so strongly excited
him, he read and re-read it; then crushing it in his hand, arose, stamped
his feet, and exclaimed, "I'll have it! if I--" here he stopped short, and,
looking round, caught a view of his face in the glass; he sank back into
the chair behind him, horrified at the lividness of his countenance.

"Good God!" he soliloquized, "I look like a murderer already," and he
covered his face with his hands, and turned away from the glass. "But I am
wrong to be excited thus; men who accomplish great things approach them
coolly, so must I. I must plot, watch, and wait;" and thus speaking, he
put on his hat and left the office.

As Mr. Stevens approached his house, a handsome carriage drove up to the
door of his neighbour, and Mr. Garie and his wife, who had been enjoying a
drive along the bank of the river, alighted and entered their residence.
The rustle of her rich silk dress grated harshly on his ear, and the soft
perfume that wafted toward him as she glided by, was the very reverse of
pleasant to him.

Mr. Garie bowed stiffly to him as they stood on the steps of their
respective residences, which were only divided by the low iron fence; but,
beyond the slight inclination of the head, took no further notice of him.

"The cursed haughty brute," muttered Mr. Stevens, as he jerked the bell
with violence; "how I hate him! I hated him before I knew--but now I----;"
as he spoke, the door was opened by a little servant that Mrs. Stevens had
recently obtained from a charity institution.

"You've kept me standing a pretty time," exclaimed he savagely, as he
seized her ear and gave it a spiteful twist; "can't you manage to open the
door quicker?"

"I was up in the garret, and didn't hear the bell," she replied, timidly.

"Then I'll improve your hearing," he continued malignantly, as he pulled
her by the ear; "take that, now, and see if you'll keep me standing at the
door an hour again."

Striding forward into the back parlour, he found his wife holding a small
rattan elevated over little Lizzy in a threatening attitude.

"Will you never mind me? I've told you again and again not to go, and still
you persist in disobeying me. I'll cut you to pieces if you don't mind.
Will you ever go again?" she almost screamed in the ears of the terrified
child.

"Oh, no, mother, never; please don't whip me, I'll mind you;" and as she
spoke, she shrank as far as possible into the corner of the room. "What's
all this--what's the matter, Jule? What on earth are you going to whip Liz
for?"

"Because she deserves it," was the sharp reply; "she don't mind a word I
say. I've forbid her again and again to go next door to visit those little
<DW65>s, and she will do it in spite of me. She slipped off this afternoon,
and has been in their house over an hour; and it was only this morning I
detected her kissing their Clarence through the fence."

"Faugh," said Mr. Stevens, with a look of disgust; "you kissed a <DW65>!
I'm ashamed of you, you nasty little thing; your mother ought to have taken
a scrubbing-brush and cleaned your mouth, never do such a thing again; come
here to me."

As he spoke, he extended his hand and grasped the delicately rounded arm of
his little girl.

"What induces you to go amongst those people; hasn't your mother again and
again forbidden you to do so. Why do you go, I say?" he continued, shaking
her roughly by the arm, and frowning savagely. "Why don't you
answer?--speak!"

The child, with the tears streaming down her lovely face, was only able to
answer in her defence. "Oh, pa, I do love them so."

"You do, do you?" replied her exasperated father, stamping his foot, and
pushing her from him; "go to bed, and if ever I hear of you going there
again, you shall be well whipped." The tearful face lingered about the door
in hope of a reprieve that did not come, and then disappeared for the
night.

"The children must not be suffered to go in there, Jule; something I've
learned to-day will----" here Mr. Stevens checked himself; and in answer to
his wife's impatient "What have you learned?" replied, "Oh, nothing of
consequence--nothing that will interest you," and sat with his slipper in
his hand, engaged in deep thought.

Now for Mr. Stevens to commence a communication to his wife, and then break
off in the middle of it, was as novel as disagreeable, as he was generally
very communicative, and would detail to her in the evening, with pleasing
minuteness, all the rogueries he had accomplished during the day; and his
unwillingness to confide something that evidently occupied his mind caused
his spouse to be greatly irritated.

Mr. Stevens drank his tea in silence, and during the evening continued
absorbed in reflection; and, notwithstanding the various ill-natured
remarks of his wife upon his strange conduct retired without giving her the
slightest clue to its cause.



CHAPTER XVII.

Plotting.


Mr. Stevens awoke at a very early hour the ensuing morning, and quite
unceremoniously shook his wife to arouse her also. This he accomplished
after considerable labour; for Mrs. Stevens was much more sleepy than
usual, in consequence of her husband's restlessness the previous night.

"I declare," said she, rubbing her eyes, "I don't get any peace of my life.
You lie awake, kicking about, half the night, muttering and whispering
about no one knows what, and then want me to rise before day. What are you
in such, a hurry for this morning,--no more mysteries, I hope?"

"Oh, come, Jule, get up!" said her husband, impatiently. "I must be off to
my business very early; I am overburthened with different things this
morning."

Mrs. Stevens made a very hasty toilette, and descended to the kitchen,
where the little charity-girl was bustling about with her eyes only half
open. With her assistance, the breakfast was soon prepared, and Mr. Stevens
called downstairs. He ate rapidly and silently, and at the conclusion of
his meal, put on his hat, and wished his amiable spouse an abrupt good
morning.

After leaving his house, he did not take the usual course to his office,
but turned his steps toward the lower part of the city. Hastening onward,
he soon left the improved parts of it in his rear, and entered upon a
shabby district.

The morning was very chilly, and as it was yet quite early, but few people
were stirring: they were labourers hurrying to their work, milkmen, and
trundlers of breadcarts.

At length he stopped at the door of a tavern, over which was a large sign,
bearing the name of Whitticar. On entering, he found two or three
forlorn-looking wretches clustering round the stove, endeavouring to
receive some warmth upon their half-clothed bodies,--their red and pimpled
noses being the only parts about them that did not look cold. They stared
wonderingly at Mr. Stevens as he entered; for a person so respectable as
himself in appearance was but seldom seen in that house.

The boy who attended the bar inquired from behind the counter what he would
take.

"Mr. Whitticar, if you please," blandly replied Mr. Stevens.

Hearing this, the boy bolted from the shop, and quite alarmed the family,
by stating that there was a man in the shop, who said he wanted to take Mr.
Whitticar, and he suspected that he was a policeman.

Whitticar, who was seldom entirely free from some scrape, went through
another door to take a survey of the new comer, and on ascertaining who it
was, entered the room.

"You've quite upset the family; we all took you for a constable," said he,
approaching Mr. Stevens, who shook hands with him heartily, and then,
laying his arm familiarly on his shoulder, rejoined,--

"I say, Whitticar, I want about five minutes' conversation with you.
Haven't you some room where we can be quite private for a little while?"

"Yes; come this way," replied he. And, leading his visitor through the bar,
they entered a small back room, the door of which they locked behind them.

"Now, Whitticar," said Mr. Stevens, "I want you to act the part of a friend
by the fellow who got in that awkward scrape at this house. As you did not
give the evidence you informed me you were possessed of, at the coroner's
inquest, it is unnecessary for you to do so before the magistrate at
examination. There is no use in hanging the fellow--it cannot result in any
benefit to yourself; it will only attract disagreeable notice to your
establishment, and possibly may occasion a loss of your licence. We will
be willing to make it worth your while to absent yourself, for a short time
at least, until the trial is over; it will put money in your purse, and
save this poor devil's life besides. What do you say to receiving a hundred
and fifty, and going off for a month or two?"

"Couldn't think of it, Mr. Stevens, no how. See how my business would
suffer; everything would be at loose ends. I should be obliged to hire a
man to take my place; and, in that case, I must calculate upon his stealing
at least twenty-five per cent. of the receipts: and then there is his
wages. No, no that won't do. Besides, I'm trying to obtain the nomination
for the office of alderman--to secure it, I must be on the spot; nothing
like looking out for oneself. I am afraid I can't accommodate you, squire,
unless you can offer something better than one hundred and fifty."

"You've got no conscience," rejoined Mr. Stevens, "not a bit."

"Well, the less of that the better for me; it's a thing of very little use
in the rum-selling business; it interferes with trade--so I can't afford to
keep a conscience. If you really want me to go, make me a better offer; say
two fifty, and I'll begin to think of it. The trial will be over in a month
or six weeks, I suppose, and a spree of that length would be very
pleasant."

"No, I won't do that, Whitticar,--that's flat; but I'll tell you what I
will do. I'll make it two hundred, and what is more, I'll see to your
nomination. I'm all right down here, you know; I own the boys in this
district; and if you'll say you'll put some little matters through for me
after you are elected, I'll call it a bargain."

"Then I'm your man," said Whitticar, extending his hand.

"Well, then," added Stevens, "come to my office this morning, and you shall
have the money; after that I shall expect you to get out of town as quick
as possible. Goodbye."

"So far all right," muttered Mr. Stevens, with an air of intense
satisfaction, as he left the house; "he'll be of great use to me. When it
becomes necessary to blind the public by a sham investigation, he will be
the man to conduct it; when I want a man released from prison, or a little
job of that kind done, he will do it--this act will put him in my power;
and I am much mistaken if he won't prove of the utmost service in our riot
scheme. Now, then, we will have an examination of McCloskey as soon as they
like."

A few weeks subsequent to the events we have just written, we find Mr.
Stevens seated in his dingy office in company with the McCloskey, who had
recently been discharged from custody in default of sufficient evidence
being found to warrant his committal for trial. He was sitting with his
feet upon the stove, and was smoking a cigar in the most free-and-easy
manner imaginable.

"So far, so good," said Mr. Stevens, as he laid down the letter he was
perusing; "that simplifies the matter greatly; and whatever is to be done
towards his removal, must be done quickly--now that the old man is dead
there is but one to deal with."

During the interval that had elapsed between the interview of Mr. Stevens
with Whitticar and the period to which we now refer, Mr. Stevens had been
actively engaged in promoting his riot scheme; and already several
disturbances had occurred, in which a number of inoffensive <DW52> people
had been injured in their persons and property.

But this was only a faint indication of what was to follow; and as he had,
through the agency of Mr. Morton and others, been able to prevent any but
the most garbled statements of these affairs from getting abroad, there was
but little danger of their operations being interfered with. Leading
articles daily appeared in the public journals (particularly those that
circulated amongst the lowest classes), in which the <DW64>s were
denounced, in the strongest terms. It was averred that their insolence,
since the commencement of the abolition agitation, had become unbearable;
and from many quarters was suggested the absolute necessity for inflicting
some general chastisement, to convince them that they were still <DW64>s,
and to teach them to remain in their proper place in the body politic.

Many of these articles were written by Mr. Stevens, and their insertion as
editorials procured through the instrumentality of Mr. Morton and his
friends.

Mr. Stevens turned to his visitor, and inquired, "What was done last
night--much of anything?"

"A great deal, yer honour," replied McCloskey; "a nagur or two half killed,
and one house set on fire and nearly burned up."

"_Is that all_?" said Mr. Stevens, with a well-assumed look of
disappointment. "Is that all? Why, you are a miserable set: you should have
beaten every <DW54> out of the district by this time."

"They're not so aisily bate out--they fight like sevin divils. One o' 'em,
night before last, split Mikey Dolan's head clane open, and it's a small
chance of his life he's got to comfort himself wid."

"Chances of war--chances of war!" rejoined Mr. Stevens,--"mere trifles when
you get used to 'em: you mustn't let that stop you--you have a great deal
yet to do. What you have already accomplished is a very small matter
compared with what is expected, and what I intend you to do: your work has
only just begun, man."

"Jist begun!" replied the astonished McCloskey; "haven't we bin raising the
very divil every night for the last week--running a near chance of being
kilt all the time--and all for nothing! It's gettin' tiresome; one don't
like to be fighting the nagurs all the time for the mere fun of the
thing--it don't pay, for divil a cent have I got for all my trouble; and ye
said ye would pay well, ye remimber."

"So I shall," said Mr. Stevens, "when you do something worth paying
for--the quarter is not accomplished yet. I want the place made so hot down
there that the <DW65>s can't stay. Go a-head, don't give them any
rest--I'll protect you from the consequences, whatever they be: I've great
things in store for you," continued he, moving nearer and speaking in a
confidential tone; "how should you like to return to Ireland a moneyed
man?"

"I should like it well enough, to be sure; but where's the money to come
from, squire?"

"Oh, there's money enough to be had if you have the courage to earn it."

"I'm willin' enough to earn an honest penny, but I don't like risking me
neck for it, squire. It's clear ye'll not be afther givin' me a dale of
money widout being sure of havin' the worth of it out o' me; and it's dirty
work enough I've done, widout the doin' of any more: me conscience is a
sore throuble to me about the other job. Be the powers I'm out o' that, and
divil a like scrape will I get in agin wid my own consint."

"Your conscience has become troublesome very suddenly," rejoined Mr.
Stevens, with a look of angry scorn; "it's strange it don't appear to have
troubled you in the least during the last few weeks, whilst you have been
knocking <DW65>s on the head so freely."

"Well, I'm tired o' that work," interrupted McCloskey; "and what's more,
I'll soon be lavin' of it off."

"We'll see about that," said Mr. Stevens. "You're a pretty fellow, now,
ain't you--grateful, too--very! Here I've been successful in getting you
out of a hanging scrape, and require a trifling service in return, and you
retire. You'll find this trifling won't do with me," continued Mr. Stevens,
with great sternness of manner. "You shall do as I wish: you are in my
power! I need your services, and I will have them--make up your mind to
that."

McCloskey was somewhat staggered at this bold declaration from Mr. Stevens;
but he soon assumed his former assured manner, and replied, "I'd like to
know how I'm in your power: as far as this riot business is concerned,
you're as deep in the mud as I'm in the mire; as for the other, be St.
Patrick, I'm clane out o' that!--they don't try a man twice for the same
thing." "Don't halloo so loud, my fine fellow," sneeringly rejoined Mr.
Stevens, "you are not entirely out of the wood yet; you are by no means as
safe as you imagine--you haven't been _tried_ yet, you have only been
examined before a magistrate! They lacked sufficient evidence to commit you
for trial--that evidence I can produce at any time; so remember, if you
please, you have not been tried yet: when you have been, and acquitted, be
kind enough to let me know, will you?"

Mr. Stevens stood for a few moments silently regarding the change his
language had brought over the now crestfallen McCloskey; he then
continued--"Don't think you can escape me--I'll have a thousand eyes upon
you; no one ever escapes me that I wish to retain. Do as I require, and
I'll promote your interest in every possible way, and protect you; but
waver, or hold back, and I'll hang you as unhesitatingly as if you were a
dog."

This threat was given in a tone that left no doubt on the mind of the
hearer but that Mr. Stevens would carry out his expressed intention; and
the reflections thereby engendered by no means added to the comfort or
sense of security that McCloskey had flattered himself he was in future to
enjoy; he, therefore, began to discover the bad policy of offending one who
might prove so formidable an enemy--of incensing one who had it in his
power to retaliate by such terrible measures.

He therefore turned to Mr. Stevens, with a somewhat humbled manner, and
said: "You needn't get so mad, squire--sure it's but natural that a man
shouldn't want to get any deeper in the mire than he can help; and I've
enough on my hands now to make them too red to look at wid comfort--sure
it's not a shade deeper you'd have 'em?" he asked, looking inquiringly at
Mr. Stevens, who was compelled to turn away his face for a moment to hide
his agitation.

At last he mastered his countenance, and, in as cool a tone as he could
assume, replied: "Oh, a little more on them will be scarcely a perceptible
addition. You know the old adage, 'In for a penny, in for a pound.' You
need have no fear," said he, lowering his voice almost to a whisper; "it
can be done in a crowd--and at night--no one will notice it."

"I don't know about that, squire--in a crowd some one will be sure to
notice it. It's, too dangerous--I can't do it."

"Tut, tut, man; don't talk like a fool. I tell you there is no danger. You,
in company with a mob of others, are to attack this man's house. When he
makes his appearance, as he will be sure to do, shoot him down."

"Good God! squire," said McCloskey, his face growing pale at the prospect
of what was required of him, "you talk of murder as if it was mere play!"

"And still, _I never murdered any one_," rejoined Mr. Stevens,
significantly; "come, come--put your scruples in your pocket, and make up
your mind to go through with it like a man. When the thing is done, you
shall have five thousand dollars in hard cash, and you can go with it where
you please. Now, what do you think of that?"

"Ah, squire, the money's a great timptation! but it's an awful job."

"No worse than you did for nothing," replied Mr. Stevens.

"But that was in a fair fight, and in hot blood; it isn't like planning to
kill a man, squire."

"Do you call it a fair fight when you steal up behind a man, and break his
skull with a slung shot?" asked Mr. Stevens.

McCloskey was unable to answer this, and sat moodily regarding his tempter.

"Come, make up your mind to it--you might as well," resumed Mr. Stevens, in
a coaxing tone.

"Ye seem bent on not giving it up, and I suppose I'll have to do it,"
replied McCloskey, reluctantly; "but what has the man done to ye's, squire,
that you're so down upon him?"

"Oh, he is one of those infernal Abolitionists, and one of the very worst
kind; he lives with a <DW65> woman--and, what is more, he is married to
her!"

"Married to a <DW65>!" exclaimed McCloskey--"it's a quare taste the animal
has--but you're not afther killing him for that; there's something more
behind: it's not for having a black wife instead of a white one you'd be
afther murthering him--ye'll get no stuff like that down me."

"No, it is not for that alone, I acknowledge," rejoined Mr. Stevens, with
considerable embarrassment. "He insulted me some time ago, and I want to be
revenged upon him."

"It's a dear job to insult you, at that rate, squire; but where does he
live?"

"In my neighbourhood--in fact, next door to me," replied Mr. Stevens, with
an averted face.

"Howly Mother! not away up there--sure it's crazy ye are. What, away up
there in the city limits!--why, they would have the police and the sogers
at our heels in less than no time. Sure, you're out o' your sinses, to have
me go up there with a mob. No, no--there's too much risk--I can't try
that."

"I tell you there shall be no risk," impatiently replied Mr. Stevens. "It's
not to be done to-night, nor to-morrow night; and, when I say do it, you
_shall_ do it, and as safely there as anywhere. Only come to the conclusion
that a thing _must_ be done, and it is half finished already. You have only
to make up your mind that you will accomplish a design in spite of
obstacles, and what you once thought to be insurmountable difficulties will
prove mere straws in your path. But we are wasting time; I've determined
you shall do it, and I hope you now know me well enough to be convinced
that it is your best policy to be as obliging as possible. You had better
go now, and be prepared to meet me to-night at Whitticar's."

After the door closed upon the retreating form of McCloskey, the careless
expression that Mr. Stevens's countenance had worn during the conversation,
gave place to one full of anxiety and apprehension, and he shuddered as he
contemplated the fearful length to which he was proceeding.

"If I fail," said he--"pshaw! I'll not fail--I must not fail--for failure
is worse than ruin; but cool--cool," he continued, sitting down to his
desk--"those who work nervously do nothing right." He sat writing
uninterruptedly until quite late in the afternoon, when the fading sunlight
compelled him to relinquish his pen, and prepare for home.

Thrusting the papers into his pocket, he hurried toward the newspaper
office from which were to emanate, as editorials, the carefully concocted
appeals to the passions of the rabble which he had been all the afternoon
so busily engaged in preparing.



CHAPTER XVIII.

Mr. Stevens falls into Bad Hands.


The amiable partner of Mr. Stevens sat in high dudgeon, at being so long
restrained from her favourite beverage by the unusually deferred absence of
her husband. At length she was rejoiced by hearing his well-known step as
he came through the garden, and the rattle of his latch-key as he opened
the door was quite musical in her ears.

"I thought you was never coming," said she, querulously, as he entered the
room; "I have been waiting tea until I am almost starved."

"You needn't have waited a moment, for you will be obliged to eat alone
after all; I'm going out. Pour me out a cup of tea--I'll drink it whilst
I'm dressing; and," continued Mr. Stevens, "I want you to get me that old
brown over-coat and those striped trowsers I used to wear occasionally."

"Why, you told me," rejoined Mrs. Stevens, "that you did not require them
again, and so I exchanged them for this pair of vases to-day."

"The devil you did!" said Mr. Stevens, angrily; "you let them lie about the
house for nearly a year--and now, just as they were likely to be of some
service to me, you've sold them. It's just like you--always doing something
at the wrong time."

"How on earth, Stevens, was I to know you wanted them?"

"Well, there, Jule, they're gone; don't let's have any more talk about it.
Get me another cup of tea; I must go out immediately." After hastily
swallowing the second cup, Mr. Stevens left his home, and walked to an
omnibus-station, from whence he was quickly transported to a street in the
lower part of the city, in which were a number of second-hand clothing
stores. These places were supported principally by the country people who
attended the market in the same street, and who fancied that the clothing
they purchased at these shops must be cheap, because it was at second-hand.

Mr. Stevens stopped at the door of one of these establishments, and paused
to take a slight survey of the premises before entering. The doorway was
hung with coats of every fashion of the last twenty years, and all in
various stages of decay. Some of them looked quite respectable, from much
cleaning and patching; and others presented a reckless and forlorn aspect,
as their worn and ragged sleeves swung about in the evening air. Old hats,
some of which were, in all probability, worn at a period anterior to the
Revolution, kept company with the well-blacked shoes that were ranged on
shelves beside the doorway, where they served in the capacity of signs, and
fairly indicated the style of goods to be purchased within.

Seeing that there were no buyers in the store, Mr. Stevens opened the door,
and entered. The sounds of his footsteps drew from behind the counter no
less a personage than our redoubtable friend Kinch, who, in the absence of
his father, was presiding over the establishment.

"Well, Snowball," said Mr. Stevens, "do you keep this curiosity-shop?"

"My name is not Snowball, and this ain't a curiosity-shop," replied Kinch.
"Do you want to buy anything?"

"I believe I do," answered Mr. Stevens. "Let me look at some coats--one
that I can get on--I won't say fit me, I'm indifferent about that--let me
see some of the worst you've got."

Kinch looked surprised at this request from a gentleman of Mr. Stevens's
appearance, and handed out, quite mechanically, a coat that was but
slightly worn. "Oh, that won't do--I want something like this," said Mr.
Stevens, taking down from a peg a very dilapidated coat, of drab colour,
and peculiar cut. What do you ask for this?"

"That's not fit for, a gentleman like you, sir," said Kinch.

"I'm the best judge of that matter," rejoined Mr. Stevens. "What is the
price of it?"

"Oh, that coat you can have for a dollar," replied Kinch.

"Then I'll take it. Now hand out some trowsers."

The trowsers were brought; and from a large number Mr. Stevens selected a
pair that suited him. Then adding an old hat to his list of purchases, he
declared his fit-out complete.

"Can't you accommodate me with some place where I can put these on?" he
asked of Kinch; "I'm going to have a little sport with some friends of
mine, and I want to wear them."

Kinch led the way into a back room, where he assisted Mr. Stevens to array
himself in his newly-purchased garments. By the change in his attire he
seemed completely robbed of all appearance of respectability; the most
disagreeable points of his physique seemed to be brought more prominently
forward by the habiliments he had assumed, they being quite in harmony with
his villanous countenance.

Kinch, who looked at him with wonder, was forced to remark, "Why, you don't
look a bit like a gentleman now, sir."

Mr. Stevens stepped forward, and surveyed himself in the looking-glass. The
transformation was complete--surprising even to himself. "I never knew
before," said he, mentally, "how far a suit of clothes goes towards giving
one the appearance of a gentleman."

He now emptied the pockets of the suit he had on;--in so doing, he dropped
upon the floor, without observing it, one of the papers.

"Fold these up," said he, handing to Kinch the suit he had just taken off,
"and to-morrow bring them to this address." As he spoke, he laid his card
upon the counter, and, after paying for his new purchases, walked out of
the shop, and bent his steps in the direction of Whitticar's tavern.

On arriving there, he found the bar-room crowded with half-drunken men, the
majority of whom were Irishmen, armed with bludgeons of all sizes and
shapes. His appearance amongst them excited but little attention, and he
remained there some time before he was recognized by the master of the
establishment.

"By the howly St. Patherick I didn't know you, squire; what have you been
doing to yourself?"

"Hist!" cried Mr. Stevens, putting his fingers to his lips; "I thought it
was best to see how matters were progressing, so I've run down for a little
while. How are you getting on?"

"Fine, fine, squire," replied Whitticar; "the boys are ripe for anything.
They talk of burning down a <DW65> church."

"Not to-night--they must not do such a thing to-night--we are not ready for
that yet. I've made out a little list--some of the places on it they might
have a dash at to-night, just to keep their hands in." As Mr. Stevens
spoke, he fumbled in his pocket for the list in question, and was quite
surprised to be unable to discover it.

"Can't you find it, squire?" asked Whitticar.

"I must have lost; it on the way," replied Mr. Stevens. "I am sure I put it
in this pocket," and he made another search. "No use--I'll have to give it
up," said he, at length; "but where is McCloskey? I haven't seen him since
I came in."

"He came here this afternoon, very far gone; he had been crooking his elbow
pretty frequently, and was so very drunk that I advised him to go home and
go to bed; so he took another dram and went away, and I haven't seen him
since."

"That's bad, very bad--everything goes wrong this evening--I wanted him
to-night particularly." "Wouldn't the boys go out with you?" suggested
Whitticar.

"No, no; that wouldn't do at all. I mustn't appear in these things. If I'm
hauled up for participation, who is to be your lawyer--eh?"

"True for you," rejoined Whitticar; "and I'll just disperse the crowd as
soon as I can, and there will be one peaceable night in the district at any
rate."

Not liking to give directions to the mob personally, and his useful
coadjutor McCloskey not being at hand, Mr. Stevens came to the conclusion
he would return to his home, and on the next evening a descent should be
made upon the places marked on the list.

Taking out his watch, he found it would be too late to return to the store
where he had purchased his present adornments, so he determined to start
for home.

The coat that temporarily adorned the person of Mr. Stevens was of peculiar
cut and colour--it was, in fact, rather in the rowdy style, and had, in its
pristine state, bedecked the person of a member of a notorious fire
company. These gentry had for a long time been the terror of the district
in which they roamed, and had rendered themselves highly obnoxious to some
of the rival factions on the borders of their own territory; they had the
unpleasant habit of pitching into and maltreating, without the slightest
provocation, any one whom their practised eyes discovered to be a rival;
and by such outrages they had excited in the bosoms of their victims a
desire for revenge that only awaited the occasion to manifest itself.

Mr. Stevens, in happy unconsciousness, that, owing to his habiliments, he
represented one of the well-known and hated faction, walked on quite
leisurely; but, unfortunately for him, his way home lay directly through
the camp of their bitterest and most active enemies.

Standing in front of a tavern-window, through which a bright light shone,
were a group of young men, who bestowed upon Mr. Stevens more than passing
attention. "I'm blest," exclaimed one of them, if there ain't a ranger!
now that it a saucy piece of business, ain't it! That fellow has come up
here to be able to go back and play brag-game."

"Let's wallop him, then," suggested another, "and teach him better than to
come parading himself in our parts. I owe 'em something for the way they
served me when I was down in their district."

"Well, come on," said the first speaker, "or he will get away whilst we are
jawing about what we shall do."

Advancing to Mr. Stevens, he tapped that gentleman on the shoulder, and
said, with mock civility, and in as bland a tone as he could assume, "It's
really very obliging of you, mister, to come up here to be flogged--saves
us the trouble of coming down to you. We would like to settle with you for
that drubbing you gave one of our boys last week."

"You must be mistaken," replied Mr. Stevens: "I don't know anything of the
affair to which you allude."

"You don't, eh! Well, take that, then, to freshen your memory," exclaimed
one of the party, at the same time dealing him a heavy blow on the cheek,
which made the lamplights around appear to dance about in the most
fantastic style.

The first impulse of Mr. Stevens was to cry out for the watchman; but a
moment's reflection suggested the impolicy of that project, as he would
inevitably be arrested with the rest; and to be brought before a magistrate
in his present guise, would have entailed upon him very embarrassing
explanations; he therefore thought it best to beg off--to throw himself, as
it were, upon their sympathies.

"Stop, gentlemen--stop--for God's sake, stop," he cried, as soon as he
could regain the breath that had been almost knocked out of him by the
tremendous blow he had just received--"don't kill an innocent man; upon my
honour I never saw you before, nor ever assaulted any of you in my life. My
dear friends," he continued, in a dolorous tone, "please let me go--you are
quite mistaken: I assure you I am not the man." "No, we ain't mistaken,
either: you're one of the rangers; I know you by your coat," replied one of
the assaulters.

It now flashed upon Mr. Stevens that he had brought himself into these
difficulties, by the assumption of the dress he then wore; he therefore
quickly rejoined--"Oh, it is not my coat--I only put it on for a joke!"

"That's a likely tale," responded one of the party, who looked very
incredulous; "I don't believe a word of it. That's some darned stuff you've
trumped up, thinking to gammon us--it won't go down; we'll just give you a
walloping, if it's only to teach you to wear your own clothes,"--and
suiting the action to the word, he commenced pommelling him unmercifully.

"Help! help!" screamed Mr. Stevens. "Don't kill me, gentlemen,--don't kill
me!"

"Oh! we won't kill you--we'll only come as near it as we can, without quite
finishing you," cried one of his relentless tormenters.

On hearing this, their victim made a frantic effort to break away, and not
succeeding in it, he commenced yelling at the top of his voice. As is usual
in such cases, the watchman was nowhere to be seen; and his cries only
exasperated his persecutors the more.

"Hit him in the bread-crusher, and stop his noise," suggested one of the
party farthest off from Mr. Stevens. This piece of advice was carried into
immediate effect, and the unfortunate wearer of the obnoxious coat received
a heavy blow in the mouth, which cut his lips and knocked out one of his
front teeth.

His cries now became so loud as to render it necessary to gag him, which
was done by one of the party in the most thorough and expeditious manner.
They then dragged him into a wheelwright's shop near by, where they
obtained some tar, with which they coated his face completely.

"Oh! don't he look like a <DW65>!" said one of the party, when they had
finished embellishing their victim.

"Rub some on his hands, and then let him go," suggested another. "When he
gets home I guess he'll surprise his mammy: I don't believe his own dog
will know him!"

A shout of laughter followed this remark, in the midst of which they
ungagged Mr. Stevens and turned him from the door.

"Now run for it--cut the quickest kind of time," exclaimed one of them, as
he gave him a kick to add impetus to his forward movement.

This aid was, however, entirely unnecessary, for Mr. Stevens shot away from
the premises like an arrow from a bow; and that, too, without any
observation upon the direction in which he was going.

As soon as he felt himself out of the reach of his tormentors, he sat down
upon the steps of a mansion, to consider what was best to be done. All the
shops, and even the taverns, were closed--not a place was open where he
could procure the least assistance; he had not even an acquaintance in the
neighbourhood to whom he might apply.

He was, indeed, a pitiable object to look upon The hat he had so recently
purchased, bad as it was when it came into his possession, was now
infinitely less presentable. In the severe trials it had undergone, in
company with its unfortunate owner, it had lost its tip and half the brim.
The countenance beneath it would, however, have absorbed the gazer's whole
attention. His lips were swelled to a size that would have been regarded as
large even on the face of a Congo <DW64>, and one eye was puffed out to an
alarming extent; whilst the coating of tar he had received rendered him
such an object as the reader can but faintly picture to himself.

The door of the mansion was suddenly opened, and there issued forth a party
of young men, evidently in an advanced state of intoxication. "Hallo!
here's a darkey!" exclaimed one of them, as the light from the hall fell
upon the upturned face of Mr. Stevens. "Ha, ha! Here's a darkey--now for
some fun!"

Mr. Stevens was immediately surrounded by half a dozen well-dressed young
men, who had evidently been enjoying an entertainment not conducted upon
temperance principles. "Spirit of--hic--hic--night, whence co-co-comest
thou?" stammered one; "sp-p-peak--art thou a creature of the
mag-mag-na-tion-goblin-damned, or only a <DW65>?--speak!" Mr. Stevens, who
at once recognized one or two of the parties as slight acquaintances, would
not open his mouth, for fear that his voice might discover him, as to them,
above all persons, he would have shrunk from making himself known, he
therefore began to make signs as though he were dumb.

"Let him alone," said one of the more sober of the party; "he's a poor dumb
fellow--let him go." His voice was disregarded, however, as the rest seemed
bent on having some sport.

A half-hogshead, nearly filled with water, which stood upon the edge of the
pavement, for the convenience of the builders who were at work next door,
caught the attention of one of them.

"Let's make him jump into this," he exclaimed, at the same time motioning
to Mr. Stevens to that effect. By dint of great effort they made him
understand what was required, and they then continued to make him jump in
and out of the hogshead for several minutes; then, joining hands, they
danced around him, whilst he stood knee-deep in the water, shivering, and
making the most imploring motions to be set at liberty.

Whilst they were thus engaged, the door again opened, and the fashionable
Mr. Morton (who had been one of the guests) descended the steps, and came
to see what had been productive of so much mirth.

"What have you got here?" he asked, pressing forward, until he saw the
battered form of Mr. Stevens; "oh, let the poor darkey go," he continued,
compassionately, for he had just drunk enough to make him feel humane; "let
the poor fellow go, it's a shame to treat him in this manner."

As he spoke, he endeavoured to take from the hands of one of the party a
piece of chip, with which he was industriously engaged in streaking the
face of Mr. Stevens with lime, "Let me alone, Morton--let me alone; I'm
making a white man of him, I'm going to make him a glorious fellow-citizen,
and have him run for Congress. Let me alone, I say."

Mr. Morton was able, however, after some persuasion, to induce the young
men to depart; and as his home lay in a direction opposite to theirs, he
said to Mr. Stevens, "Come on, old fellow, I'll protect you."

As soon as they were out of hearing of the others, Mr. Stevens exclaimed,
"Don't you know me, Morton?"

Mr. Morton started back with surprise, and looked at his companion in a
bewildered manner, then exclaimed, "No, I'll be hanged if I do. Who the
devil are you?"

"I'm Stevens; you know me."

"Indeed I don't. Who's Stevens?"

"You don't know me! why, I'm George Stevens, the lawyer."

Mr. Morton thought that he now recognized the voice, and as they were
passing under the lamp at the time, Mr. Stevens said to him, "Put your
finger on my face, and you will soon see it is only tar." Mr. Morton did as
he was desired, and found his finger smeared with the sticky article.

"What on earth have you been doing with yourself?" he asked, with great
surprise; "what is all this masquerading for?"

Mr. Stevens hereupon related his visit at Whitticar's, and detailed the
events that had subsequently occurred.

Mr. Morton gave vent to shouts of laughter as he listened to the recital of
his friend. "By George!" he exclaimed, "I'll have to tell that; it is too
good to keep."

"Oh, no, don't," said Mr. Stevens; "that won't do--you forget what I came
out for?"

"True," rejoined Mr. Morton; "I suppose it will be best to keep mum about
it. I'll go home with you, you might fall into the hands of the Philistines
again."

"Thank you--thank you," replied Mr. Stevens, who felt greatly relieved to
have some company for his further protection; "and," continued he, "if I
could only get some of this infernal stuff off my face, I should be so
glad; let us try."

Accordingly they stopped at the nearest pump, and endeavoured to remove
some of the obnoxious tar from his face; but, unfortunately, the only
result obtained by their efforts was to rub it more thoroughly in, so they
were compelled to give up in despair, and hasten onward.

Mr. Stevens rang so loudly at the door, as to quite startle his wife and
the charity-girl, both of whom had fallen into a sound sleep, as they sat
together awaiting his return. Mr. Morton, who, as we have said before, was
not entirely sober, was singing a popular melody, and keeping time upon the
door with the head of his cane. Now, in all her life, Mrs. Stevens had
never heard her husband utter a note, and being greatly frightened at the
unusual noise upon the door-step, held a hurried consultation with the
charity-girl upon the best mode of proceeding.

"Call through the key-hole, ma'am," suggested she, which advice Mrs.
Stevens immediately followed, and inquired, "Who's there?"

"Open the door, Jule, don't keep me out here with your darned nonsense; let
me in quick."

"Yes, let him in," added Mr. Morton; "he's brought a gentleman from Africa
with him."

Mrs. Stevens did not exactly catch the purport of the words uttered by Mr.
Morton; and, therefore, when she opened the door, and her husband, with his
well-blacked face, stalked into the entry, she could not repress a scream
of fright at the hideous figure he presented.

"Hush, hush," he exclaimed, "don't arouse the neighbours--it's me; don't
you know my voice."

Mrs. Stevens stared at him in a bewildered manner, and after bidding Mr.
Morton "Good night," she closed and locked the door, and followed her
husband into the back room. In a short time he recapitulated the events
of the night to his astonished and indignant spouse, who greatly
commiserated his misfortunes. A bottle of sweet oil was brought into
requisition, and she made a lengthened effort to remove the tar from her
husband's face, in which she only partially succeeded; and it was almost
day when he crawled off to bed, with the skin half scraped off from his
swollen face.



CHAPTER XIX.

The Alarm.


Immediately after the departure of Mr. Stevens, Master Kinch began to
consider the propriety of closing the establishment for the night. Sliding
down from the counter, where he had been seated, reflecting upon the
strange conduct of his recent customer, he said, "I feels rather queer
round about here," laying his hand upon his stomach; "and I'm inclined to
think that some of them 'ere Jersey sausages and buckwheat cakes that the
old man has been stuffing himself with, wouldn't go down slow. Rather
shabby in him not to come back, and let me go home, and have a slap at the
wittles. I expect nothing else, but that he has eat so much, that he's fell
asleep at the supper-table, and won't wake up till bedtime. He's always
serving me that same trick."

The old man thus alluded to was no other than Master Kinch's father, who
had departed from the shop two or three hours previously, promising to
return immediately after tea.

This promise appeared to have entirely faded from his recollection, as he
was at that moment, as Kinch had supposed, fast asleep, and totally
oblivious of the fact that such a person as his hungry descendant was in
existence.

Having fully come to the conclusion to suspend operations for the evening,
Kinch made two or three excursions into the street, returning each time
laden with old hats, coats, and shoes. These he deposited on the counter
without order or arrangement, muttering, as he did so, that the old man
could sort 'em out in the morning to suit himself. The things being all
brought from the street, he had only to close the shutters, which
operation was soon effected, and our hungry friend on his way home.

The next morning Mr. De Younge (for the father of Kinch rejoiced in that
aristocratic cognomen) was early at his receptacle for old clothes, and it
being market-day, he anticipated doing a good business. The old man
leisurely took down the shutters, assorted and hung out the old clothes,
and was busily engaged in sweeping out the store, when his eye fell upon
the paper dropped by Mr. Stevens the evening previous.

"What's dis 'ere," said he, stooping to pick it up; "bill or suthin' like
it, I s'pose. What a trial 'tis not to be able to read writin'; don't know
whether 'tis worth keeping or not; best save it though till dat ar boy of
mine comes, _he_ can read it--he's a scholar. Ah, de children now-a-days
has greater 'vantages than deir poor fathers had."

Whilst he was thus soliloquizing, his attention was arrested by the noise
of footsteps in the other part of the shop, and looking up, he discerned
the tall form of Mr. Walters.

"Why, bless me," said the old man, "dis is an early visit; where you come
from, honey, dis time o' day?"

"Oh, I take a walk every morning, to breathe a little of the fresh air; it
gives one an appetite for breakfast, you know. You'll let me take the
liberty of sitting on your counter, won't you?" he continued; "I want to
read a little article in a newspaper I have just purchased."

Assent being readily given, Mr. Walters was soon perusing the journal with
great attention; at last he tossed it from him in an impatient manner, and
exclaimed, "Of all lying rascals, I think the reporters for this paper are
the greatest. Now, for instance, three or four nights since, a gang of
villains assaulted one of my tenants--a <DW52> man--upon his own
doorstep, and nearly killed him, and that, too, without the slightest
provocation; they then set fire to the house, which was half consumed
before it could be extinguished; and it is here stated that the <DW52>
people were the aggressors, and whilst they were engaged in the _melee_,
the house caught fire accidentally." "Yes," rejoined Mr. De Younge;
"things are gitting mighty critical even in dese 'ere parts; and I wouldn't
live furder down town if you was to give me a house rent-free. Why, it's
raly dangerous to go home nights down dere."

"And there is no knowing how long we may be any better off up here,"
continued Mr. Walters; "the authorities don't seem to take the least notice
of them, and the rioters appear to be having it all their own way."

They continued conversing upon the topic for some time, Mr. De Younge being
meanwhile engaged in sponging and cleaning some coats he had purchased the
day before; in so doing, he was obliged to remove the paper he had picked
up from the floor, and it occurred to him to ask Mr. Walters to read it; he
therefore handed it to him, saying--

"Jist read dat, honey, won't you? I want to know if it's worth savin'. I've
burnt up two or three receipts in my life, and had de bills to pay over;
and I'se got rale careful, you know. 'Taint pleasant to pay money twice
over for de same thing."

Mr. Walters took the paper extended to him, and, after glancing over it,
remarked, "This handwriting is very familiar to me, very; but whose it is,
I can't say; it appears to be a list of addresses, or something of that
kind." And he read over various names of streets, and numbers of houses.
"Why," he exclaimed, with a start of surprise, "here is my own house upon
the list, 257, Easton-street; then here is 22, Christian-street; here also
are numbers in Baker-street, Bedford-street, Sixth, Seventh, and Eighth
Streets; in some of which houses I know <DW52> people live, for one or
two of them are my own. This is a strange affair."

As he spoke, he turned over the paper, and read on the other side,--"Places
to be attacked." "Why, this looks serious," he continued, with some
excitement of manner. "'Places to be attacked,'--don't that seem to you as
if it might be a list of places for these rioters to set upon? I really
must look into this. Who could have left it here?"

"I raly don't know," replied the old man. "Kinch told me suthin' last
night about some gemman comin' here and changing his clothes; p'raps 'twas
him. I'd like to know who 'twas myself. Well, wait awhile, my boy will come
in directly; maybe he can explain it."

He had scarcely finished speaking, when Master Kinch made his appearance,
with his hat, as usual, placed upon nine hairs, and his mouth smeared with
the eggs and bacon with which he had been "staying and comforting" himself.
He took off his hat on perceiving Mr. Walters, and, with great humility,
"hoped that gentleman was well."

"Yes, very well, Kinch," replied Mr. Walters. "We were waiting for you. Can
you tell where this came from?" he asked, handing him the mysterious paper.

"Never seen it before, that I know of," replied Kinch, after a short
inspection.

"Well, who was here last night?" asked his father; "you said you sold
suthin'?"

"So I did," replied Kinch; "sold a whole suit; and the gentleman who put it
on said he was going out for a lark. He was changing some papers from his
pocket: perhaps he dropped it. I'm to take this suit back to him to-day.
Here is his card."

"By heavens!" exclaimed Mr. Walters, after looking at the card, "I know the
fellow,--George Stevens, 'Slippery George,'--every one knows him, and can
speak no good of him either. Now I recognize the handwriting of the list; I
begin to suspect something wrong by seeing his name in connection with
this."

Hereupon Kinch was subjected to a severe cross-examination, which had the
effect of deepening Mr. Walters's impression, that some plot was being
concocted that would result to the detriment of the <DW52> people; for he
was confident that no good could be indicated by the mysterious conduct of
Mr. Stevens.

After some deliberation, Kinch received instructions to take home the
clothes as directed, and to have his eyes about him; and if he saw or heard
anything, he was to report it. In accordance with his instructions,
Master Kinch made several journeys to Mr. Stevens's office, but did not
succeed in finding that gentleman within; the last trip he made there
fatigued him to such a degree, that he determined to wait his arrival, as
he judged, from the lateness of the hour, that, if it was his intention to
come at all that day, he would soon be there.

"I'll sit down here," said Kinch, who espied an old box in the back part of
the entry, "and give myself a little time to blow."

He had not sat long before he heard footsteps on the stairs, and presently
the sound of voices became quite audible.

"That's him," ejaculated Kinch, as Mr. Stevens was heard saying, in an
angry tone,--"Yes; and a devil of a scrape I got into by your want of
sobriety. Had you followed my directions, and met me at Whitticar's,
instead of getting drunk as a beast, and being obliged to go home to bed,
it wouldn't have happened."

"Well, squire," replied McCloskey, for he was the person addressed by Mr.
Stevens, "a man can't be expected always to keep sober."

"He ought to when he has business before him," rejoined Mr. Stevens,
sharply; "how the devil am I to trust you to do anything of importance,
when I can't depend on your keeping sober a day at a time? Come up to this
top landing," continued he, "and listen to me, if you think you are sober
enough to comprehend what I say to you."

They now approached, and stood within a few feet of the place where Kinch
was sitting, and Mr. Stevens said, with a great deal of emphasis, "Now, I
want you to pay the strictest attention to what I say. I had a list of
places made out for you last night, but, somehow or other, I lost it. But
that is neither here nor there. This is what I want you to attend to
particularly. Don't attempt anything to-night; you can't get a sufficient
number of the boys together; but, when you do go, you are to take, first,
Christian-street, between Eleventh and Twelfth,--there are several <DW65>
families living in that block. Smash in their windows, break their
furniture, and, if possible, set one of the houses on fire, and that will
draw attention to that locality whilst you are operating elsewhere. By that
time, the boys will be ripe for anything. Then you had better go to a house
in Easton-street, corner of Shotwell: there is a rich <DW65> living there
whose plunder is worth something. I owe him an old grudge, and I want you
to pay it off for me."

"You keep me pretty busy paying your debts. What's the name of this rich
<DW65>?"

"Walters," replied Mr. Stevens; "everybody knows him. Now about that other
affair." Here he whispered so low, that Kinch could only learn they were
planning an attack on the house of some one, but failed in discovering the
name. McCloskey departed as soon as he had received full directions from
Mr. Stevens, and his retreating steps might be still heard upon the stairs,
when Mr. Stevens unlocked his office-door and entered.

After giving him sufficient time to get quietly seated, Kinch followed, and
delivered the clothes left with him the evening previous. He was very much
struck with Mr. Stevens's altered appearance, and, in fact, would not have
recognized him, but for his voice.

"You don't seem to be well?" remarked Kinch, inquiringly.

"No, I'm not," he replied, gruffly; "I've caught cold." As Kinch was
leaving the office, he called after him, "Did you find a paper in your shop
this morning?"

"No, sir," replied Kinch, "_I didn't_;" but mentally he observed, "My daddy
did though;" and, fearful of some other troublesome question, he took leave
immediately.

Fatigued and out of breath, Kinch arrived at the house of Mr. Walters,
where he considered it best to go and communicate what he had learned.

Mr. Walters was at dinner when he received from the maid a summons to the
parlour to see a lad, who said his business was a matter "of life or
death." He was obliged to smile at the air of importance with which Kinch
commenced the relation of what he had overheard--but the smile gave place
to a look of anxiety and indignation long ere he had finished, and at the
conclusion of the communication he was highly excited and alarmed.

"The infernal scoundrel!" exclaimed Mr. Walters. "Are you sure it was my
house?"

"Yes, sure," was Kinch's reply. "You are the only <DW52> person living in
the square--and he said plain enough for anybody to understand,
'Easton-street, corner of Shotwell.' I heard every word but what they said
towards the last in a whisper."

"You couldn't catch anything of it?" asked Mr. Walters.

"No, I missed that; they talked too low for me to hear."

After reflecting a few moments, Mr. Walters said: "Not a word of this is to
be lisped anywhere except with my permission, and by my direction. Have you
had your dinner?"

"No, sir," was the prompt reply.

"I want to despatch a note to Mr. Ellis, by you, if it won't trouble you
too much. Can you oblige me?"

"Oh, yes, sir, by all means," replied Kinch, "I'll go there with pleasure."

"Then whilst I'm writing," continued Mr. Walters, "you can be eating your
dinner, that will economize time, you know."

Kinch followed the servant who answered the bell into the dining-room which
Mr. Walters had just left. On being supplied with a knife and fork, he
helped himself bountifully to the roast duck, then pouring out a glass of
wine, he drank with great enthusiasm, to "our honoured self," which
proceeding caused infinite amusement to the two servants who were peeping
at him through the dining-room door. "Der-licious," exclaimed Kinch,
depositing his glass upon the table; "guess I'll try another;" and suiting
the action to the word, he refilled his glass, and dispatched its contents
in the wake of the other. Having laboured upon the duck until his appetite
was somewhat appeased, he leant back in his chair and suffered his plate to
be changed for another, which being done, he made an attack upon a peach
pie, and nearly demolished it outright.

This last performance brought his meal to a conclusion, and with a look of
weariness, he remarked, "I don't see how it is--but as soon as I have eat
for a little while my appetite is sure to leave me--now I can't eat a bit
more. But the worst thing is walking down to Mr. Ellis's. I don't feel a
bit like it, but I suppose I must;" and reluctantly rising from the table,
he returned to the parlour, where he found Mr. Walters folding the note he
had promised to deliver.

As soon as he had despatched Kinch on his errand, Mr. Walters put on his
hat and walked to the office of the mayor.

"Is his honour in?" he asked of one of the police, who was lounging in the
anteroom.

"Yes, he is--what do you want with him?" asked the official, in a rude
tone.

"That, sir, is none of your business," replied Mr. Walters; "if the mayor
is in, hand him this card, and say I wish to see him."

Somewhat awed by Mr. Walters's dignified and decided manner, the man went
quickly to deliver his message, and returned with an answer that his honour
would be obliged to Mr. Walters if he would step into his office.

On following the officer, he was ushered into a small room--the private
office of the chief magistrate of the city.

"Take a seat, sir," said the mayor, politely, "it is some time since we
have met. I think I had the pleasure of transacting business with you quite
frequently some years back if I am not mistaken."

"You are quite correct," replied Mr. Walters, "and being so favourably
impressed by your courtesy on the occasions to which you refer, I have
ventured to intrude upon you with a matter of great importance, not only to
myself, but I think I may say to the public generally. Since this morning,
circumstances have come under my notice that leave no doubt on my mind
that a thoroughly-concerted plan is afoot for the destruction of the
property of a large number of our  citizens--mine amongst the rest.
You must be aware," he continued, "that many very serious disturbances have
occurred lately in the lower part of the city."

"Yes, I've heard something respecting it," replied the mayor, "but I
believe they were nothing more than trifling combats between the <DW64>s
and the whites in that vicinity."

"Oh, no, sir! I assure you," rejoined Mr. Walters, "they were and are
anything but trifling. I regard them, however, as only faint indications of
what we may expect if the thing is not promptly suppressed; there is an
organized gang of villains, who are combined for the sole purpose of
mobbing us  citizens; and, as we are inoffensive, we certainly
deserve protection; and here," continued Mr. Walters, "is a copy of the
list of places upon which it is rumoured an attack is to be made."

"I really don't see how I'm to prevent it, Mr. Walters; with the exception
of your own residence, all that are here enumerated are out of my
jurisdiction. I can send two or three police for your protection if you
think it necessary. But I really can't see my way clear to do anything
further."

"Two or three police!" said Mr. Walters, with rising indignation at the
apathy and indifference the mayor exhibited; "they would scarcely be of any
more use than as many women. If that is the extent of the aid you can
afford me, I must do what I can to protect myself."

"I trust your fears lead you to exaggerate the danger," said the mayor, as
Mr. Walters arose to depart; "perhaps it is _only_ rumour after all."

"I might have flattered myself with the same idea, did I not feel convinced
by what has so recently occurred but a short distance from my own house; at
any rate, if I am attacked, they will find I am not unprepared. Good day,"
and bowing courteously to the mayor, Mr. Walters departed.



CHAPTER XX.

The Attack.


Mr. Walters lost no time in sending messengers to the various parties
threatened by the mob, warning them either to leave their houses or to make
every exertion for a vigorous defence. Few, however, adopted the latter
extremity; the majority fled from their homes, leaving what effects they
could not carry away at the mercy of the mob, and sought an asylum in the
houses of such kindly-disposed whites as would give them shelter.

Although the authorities of the district had received the most positive
information of the nefarious schemes of the rioters, they had not made the
slightest efforts to protect the poor creatures threatened in their persons
and property, but let the tide of lawlessness flow on unchecked.

Throughout the day parties of <DW52> people might have been seen hurrying
to the upper part of the city: women with terror written on their faces,
some with babes in their arms and children at their side, hastening to some
temporary place of refuge, in company with men who were bending beneath the
weight of household goods.

Mr. Walters had converted his house into a temporary fortress: the shutters
of the upper windows had been loop-holed, double bars had been placed
across the doors and windows on the ground floor, carpets had been taken
up, superfluous furniture removed, and an air of thorough preparation
imparted. A few of Mr. Walters's male friends had volunteered their aid in
defence of his house, and their services had been accepted.

Mr. Ellis, whose house was quite indefensible (it being situated in a
neighbourhood swarming with the class of which the mob was composed), had
decided on bringing his family to the house of Mr. Walters, and sharing
with him the fortunes of the night, his wife and daughters having declared
they would feel as safe there as elsewhere; and, accordingly, about five in
the afternoon, Mrs. Ellis came up, accompanied by Kinch and the girls.

Caddy and Kinch, who brought up the rear, seemed very solicitous respecting
the safety of a package that the latter bore in his arms.

"What have you there?" asked Mr. Walters, with a smile; "it must be powder,
or some other explosive matter, you take such wonderful pains for its
preservation. Come, Caddy, tell us what it is; is it powder?"

"No, Mr. Walters, it isn't powder," she replied; "it's nothing that will
blow the house up or burn it down."

"What is it, then? You tell us, Kinch."

"Just do, if you think best," said Caddy, giving him a threatening glance;
whereupon, Master Kinch looked as much as to say, "If you were to put me on
the rack you couldn't get a word out of me."

"I suppose I shall have to give you up," said Mr. Walters at last; "but
don't stand here in the entry; come up into the drawing-room."

Mrs. Ellis and Esther followed him upstairs, and stood at the door of the
drawing-room surveying the preparations for defence that the appearance of
the room so abundantly indicated. Guns were stacked in the corner, a number
of pistols lay upon the mantelpiece, and a pile of cartridges was heaped up
beside a small keg of powder that stood upon the table opposite the
fire-place.

"Dear me!" exclaimed Mrs. Ellis, "this looks dreadful; it almost frightens
me out of my wits to see so many dangerous weapons scattered about."

"And how does it affect our quiet Esther?" asked Mr. Walters.

"It makes me wish I were a man," she replied, with considerable vehemence
of manner. All started at this language from one of her usually gentle
demeanour.

"Why, Esther, how you talk, girl: what's come over you?"

"Talk!" replied she. "I say nothing that I do not feel. As we came through
the streets to-day, and I saw so many inoffensive creatures, who, like
ourselves, have never done these white wretches the least injury,--to see
them and us driven from our homes by a mob of wretches, who can accuse us
of nothing but being darker than themselves,--it takes all the woman out of
my bosom, and makes me feel like a----" here Esther paused, and bit her lip
to prevent the utterance of a fierce expression that hovered on the tip of
her tongue.

She then continued: "One poor woman in particular I noticed: she had a babe
in her arms, poor thing, and was weeping bitterly because she knew of no
place to go to seek for shelter or protection. A couple of white men stood
by jeering and taunting her. I felt as though I could have strangled them:
had I been a man, I would have attacked them on the spot, if I had been
sure they would have killed me the next moment."

"Hush! Esther, hush! my child; you must not talk so, it sounds
unwomanly--unchristian. Why, I never heard you talk so before." Esther made
no reply, but stood resting her forehead upon the mantelpiece. Her face was
flushed with excitement, and her dark eyes glistened like polished jet.

Mr. Walters stood regarding her for a time with evident admiration, and
then said, "You are a brave one, after my own heart." Esther hung down her
head, confused by the ardent look he cast upon her, as he continued, "You
have taken me by surprise; but it's always the way with you quiet people;
events like these bring you out--seem to change your very natures, as it
were. We must look out," said he, with a smile, turning to one of the young
men, "or Miss Ellis will excel us all in courage. I shall expect great
things from her if we are attacked to-night."

"Don't make a jest of me, Mr. Walters," said Esther, and as she spoke her
eyes moistened and her lip quivered with vexation.

"No, no, my dear girl, don't misunderstand me," replied he, quickly;
"nothing was farther from my thoughts. I truly meant all that I said. I
believe you to be a brave girl."

"If you really think so," rejoined Esther, "prove it by showing me how to
load these." As she spoke she took from the mantel one of the pistols that
were lying there, and turned it over to examine it.

"Oh! put that down, Esther, put that down immediately," almost screamed
Mrs. Ellis; "what with your speeches and your guns you'll quite set me
crazy; do take it from her, Walters; it will certainly go off."

"There's not the least danger, Ellen," he replied; "there's nothing in it."

"Well, I'm afraid of guns, loaded or unloaded; they are dangerous, all of
them, whether they have anything in them or not. Do you hear me, Esther; do
put that down and come out of here."

"Oh, no, mother," said she, "do let me remain; there, I'll lay the pistols
down and won't touch them again whilst you are in the room."

"You may safely leave her in my hands," interposed Mr. Walters. "If she
wants to learn, let her; it won't injure her in the least, I'll take care
of that." This assurance somewhat quieted Mrs. Ellis, who left the room and
took up her quarters in another apartment.

"Now, Mr. Walters," said Esther, taking off her bonnet, I'm quite in
earnest about learning to load these pistols, and I wish you to instruct
me. You may be hard pressed tonight, and unable to load for yourselves, and
in such an emergency I could perhaps be of great use to you."

"But, my child," replied he, "to be of use in the manner you propose, you
would be compelled to remain in quite an exposed situation."

"I am aware of that," calmly rejoined Esther. "And still you are not
afraid?" he asked, in surprise.

"Why should I be; I shall not be any more exposed than you or my father."

"That's enough--I'll teach you. Look here," said Mr. Walters, "observe how
I load this." Esther gave her undivided attention to the work before her,
and when he had finished, she took up another pistol and loaded it with a
precision and celerity that would have reflected honour on a more practised
hand.

"Well done!--capital!" exclaimed Mr. Walters, as she laid down the weapon.
"You'll do, my girl; as I said before, you are one after my own heart. Now,
whilst you are loading the rest, I will go downstairs, where I have some
little matters to attend to." On the stair-way he was met by Kinch and
Caddy, who were tugging up a large kettle of water. "Is it possible,
Caddy," asked Mr. Walters, "that your propensity to dabble in soap and
water has overcome you even at this critical time? You certainly can't be
going to scrub?"

"No, I'm not going to scrub," she replied, "nor do anything like it. We've
got our plans, haven't we, Kinch?"

"Let's hear what your plans are. I'd like to be enlightened a little, if
convenient," said Mr. Walters.

"Well, it's _not_ convenient, Mr. Walters, so you need not expect to hear a
word about them. You'd only laugh if we were to tell you, so we're going to
keep it to ourselves, ain't we, Kinch?"

The latter, thus appealed to, put on an air of profound mystery, and
intimated that if they were permitted to pursue the even tenor of their
way, great results might be expected; but if they were balked in their
designs, he could not answer for the consequences.

"You and Esther have your plans," resumed Caddy, "and we have ours. We
don't believe in powder and shot, and don't want anything to do with guns;
for my part I'm afraid of them, so please let us go by--do, now, that's a
good soul!"

"You seem to forget that I'm the commander of this fortress," said Mr.
Walters, "and that I have a right to know everything that transpires within
it; but I see you look obstinate, and as I haven't time to settle the
matter now, you may pass on. I wonder what they can be about," he remarked,
as they hurried on. "I must steal up by-and-by and see for myself."

One after another the various friends of Mr. Walters came in, each bringing
some vague report of the designs of the mob. They all described the
excitement as growing more intense; that the houses of various prominent
Abolitionists had been threatened; that an attempt had been made to fire
one of the  churches; and that, notwithstanding the rioters made
little scruple in declaring their intentions, the authorities were not
using the slightest effort to restrain them, or to protect the parties
threatened. Day was fast waning, and the approaching night brought with it
clouds and cold.

Whilst they had been engaged in their preparations for defence, none had
time to reflect upon the danger of their situation; but now that all was
prepared, and there was nothing to sustain the excitement of the last few
hours, a chill crept over the circle who were gathered round the fire.
There were no candles burning, and the uncertain glow from the grate gave a
rather weird-like look to the group. The arms stacked in the corner of the
room, and the occasional glitter of the pistol-barrels as the flames rose
and fell, gave the whole a peculiarly strange effect.

"We look belligerent enough, I should think," remarked Mr. Walters, looking
around him. "I wish we were well out of this: it's terrible to be driven to
these extremities--but we are not the aggressors, thank God! and the
results, be they what they may, are not of our seeking. I have a right to
defend my own: I have asked protection of the law, and it is too weak, or
too indifferent, to give it; so I have no alternative but to protect
myself. But who is here? It has grown so dark in the room that I can
scarcely distinguish any one. Where are all the ladies?" "None are here
except myself," answered Esther; "all the rest are below stairs."

"And where are you? I hear, but can't see you; give me your hand," said he,
extending his own in the direction from which her voice proceeded. "How
cold your hand is," he continued; "are you frightened?"

"Frightened!" she replied; "I never felt calmer in my life--put your finger
on my pulse."

Mr. Walters did as he was desired, and exclaimed, "Steady as a clock. I
trust nothing may occur before morning to cause it to beat more hurriedly."

"Let us put some wood on these coals," suggested Mr. Ellis; "it will make a
slight blaze, and give us a chance to see each other." As he spoke he took
up a few small fagots and cast them upon the fire.

The wood snapped and crackled, as the flames mounted the chimney and cast a
cheerful glow upon the surrounding objects: suddenly a thoroughly ignited
piece flew off from the rest and fell on the table in the midst of the
cartridges. "Run for your lives!" shrieked one of the party. "The powder!
the powder!" Simultaneously they nearly all rushed to the door.

Mr. Walters stood as one petrified. Esther alone, of the whole party,
retained her presence of mind; springing forward, she grasped the blazing
fragment and dashed it back again into the grate. All this passed in a few
seconds, and in the end Esther was so overcome with excitement and terror,
that she fainted outright. Hearing no report, those who had fled cautiously
returned, and by their united efforts she was soon restored to
consciousness.

"What a narrow escape!" said she, trembling, and covering her face with her
hands; "it makes me shudder to think of it."

"We owe our lives to you, my brave girl," said Mr. Walters; "your presence
of mind has quite put us all to the blush."

"Oh! move the powder some distance off, or the same thing may happen
again. Please do move it, Mr. Walters; I shall have no peace whilst it is
there."

Whilst they were thus engaged, a loud commotion was heard below stairs, and
with one accord all started in the direction from whence the noise
proceeded.

"Bring a light! bring a light!" cried Mrs. Ellis; "something dreadful has
happened." A light was soon procured, and the cause of this second alarm
fully ascertained.

Master Kinch, in his anxiety to give himself as warlike an appearance as
possible, had added to his accoutrements an old sword that he had
discovered in an out-of-the-way corner of the garret. Not being accustomed
to weapons of this nature, he had been constantly getting it between his
legs, and had already been precipitated by it down a flight of steps, to
the imminent risk of his neck. Undaunted, however, by this mishap, he had
clung to it with wonderful tenacity, until it had again caused a disaster
the noise of which had brought all parties into the room where it had
occurred.

The light being brought, Master Kinch crawled out from under a table with
his head and back covered with batter, a pan of which had been overturned
upon him, in consequence of his having been tripped up by his sword and
falling violently against the table on which it stood.

"I said you had better take that skewer off," exclaimed Caddy: "It's a
wonder it hasn't broke your neck before now; but you are such a goose you
would wear it," said she, surveying her aide-de-camp with derision, as he
vainly endeavoured to scrape the batter from his face.

"Please give me some water," cried Kinch, looking from one to the other of
the laughing group: "help a feller to get it off, can't you--it's all in my
eyes, and the yeast is blinding me."

The only answer to this appeal was an additional shout of laughter, without
the slightest effort for his relief. At last Caddy, taking compassion upon
his forlorn condition, procured a basin of water, and assisted him to wash
from his woolly pate what had been intended for the next day's meal.
"This is the farce after what was almost a tragedy," said Mr. Walters, as
they ascended the stairs again; "I wonder what we shall have next!"

They all returned to their chairs by the drawing-room fire after this
occurrence, and remained in comparative silence for some time, until loud
cries of "Fire! fire!" startled them from their seats.

"The whole of the lower part of the city appears to be in a blaze,"
exclaimed one of the party who had hastened to the window; "look at the
flames--they are ascending from several places. They are at their work; we
may expect them here soon."

"Well, they'll find us prepared when they do come," rejoined Mr. Walters.

"What do you propose?" asked Mr. Ellis. "Are we to fire on them at once, or
wait for their attack?"

"Wait for their attack, by all means," said he, in reply;--"if they throw
stones, you'll find plenty in that room with which to return the
compliment; if they resort to fire-arms, then we will do the same; I want
to be strictly on the defensive--but at the same time we must defend
ourselves fully and energetically."

In about an hour after this conversation a dull roar was heard in the
distance, which grew louder and nearer every moment.

"Hist!" said Esther; "do you hear that noise? Listen! isn't that the mob
coming?"

Mr. Walters opened the shutter, and then the sound became more distinct. On
they came, nearer and nearer, until the noise of their voices became almost
deafening.

There was something awful in the appearance of the motley crowd that, like
a torrent, foamed and surged through the streets. Some were bearing large
pine torches that filled the air with thick smoke and partially lighted up
the surrounding gloom. Most of them were armed with clubs, and a few with
guns and pistols.

As they approached the house, there seemed to be a sort of consultation
between the ringleaders, for soon after every light was extinguished, and
the deafening yells of "Kill the <DW65>s!" "Down with the Abolitionists!"
were almost entirely stilled.

"I wonder what that means," said Mr. Walters, who had closed the shutter,
and was surveying, through an aperture that had been cut, the turbulent
mass below. "Look out for something soon."

He had scarcely finished speaking, when a voice in the street cried,
"One--two--three!" and immediately there followed a volley of missiles,
crushing in the windows of the chamber above, and rattling upon the
shutters of the room in which the party of defenders were gathered. A yell
then went up from the mob, followed by another shower of stones.

"It is now our turn," said Mr. Walters, coolly. "Four of you place
yourselves at the windows of the adjoining room; the rest remain here. When
you see a bright light reflected on the crowd below, throw open the
shutters, and hurl down stones as long as the light is shining. Now, take
your places, and as soon as you are prepared stamp upon the floor."

Each of the men now armed themselves with two or more of the largest stones
they could find, from the heap that had been provided for the occasion; and
in a few seconds a loud stamping upon the floor informed Mr. Walters that
all was ready. He now opened the aperture in the shutter, and placed
therein a powerful reflecting light which brought the shouting crowd below
clearly into view, and in an instant a shower of heavy stones came crashing
down upon their upturned faces.

Yells of rage and agony ascended from the throng, who, not seeing any
previous signs of life in the house, had no anticipation of so prompt and
severe a response to their attack. For a time they swayed to and fro,
bewildered by the intense light and crushing shower of stones that had so
suddenly fallen upon them. Those in the rear, however, pressing forward,
did not permit the most exposed to retire out of reach of missiles from the
house; on perceiving which, Mr. Walters again turned the light upon them,
and immediately another stony shower came rattling down, which caused a
precipitate retreat.

"The house is full of <DW65>s!--the house is full of <DW65>s!" cried
several voices--"Shoot them! kill them!" and immediately several shots were
fired at the window by the mob below.

"Don't fire yet," said Mr. Walters to one of the young men who had his hand
upon a gun. "Stop awhile. When we do fire, let it be to some purpose--let
us make sure that some one is hit."

Whilst they were talking, two or three bullets pierced the shutters, and
flattened themselves upon the ceiling above.

"Those are rifle bullets," remarked one of the young men--"do let us fire."

"It is too great a risk to approach the windows at present; keep quiet for
a little while; and, when the light is shown again, fire. But, hark!"
continued he, "they are trying to burst open the door. We can't reach them
there without exposing ourselves, and if they should get into the entry it
would be hard work to dislodge them."

"Let us give them a round; probably it will disperse those farthest
off--and those at the door will follow," suggested one of the young men.

"We'll try it, at any rate," replied Walters. "Take your places, don't fire
until I show the light--then pick your man, and let him have it. There is
no use to fire, you know, unless you hit somebody. Are you ready?" he
asked.

"Yes," was the prompt reply.

"Then here goes," said he, turning the light upon the crowd below--who,
having some experience in what would follow, did their best to get out of
reach; but they were too late--for the appearance of the light was followed
by the instantaneous report of several guns which did fearful execution
amidst the throng of ruffians. Two or three fell on the spot, and were
carried off by their comrades with fearful execrations.

The firing now became frequent on both sides, and Esther's services came
into constant requisition. It was in vain that her father endeavoured to
persuade her to leave the room; notwithstanding the shutters had been
thrown open to facilitate operations from within and the exposure thereby
greatly increased, she resolutely refused to retire, and continued
fearlessly to load the guns and hand them to the men.

"They've got axes at work upon the door, if they are not dislodged, they'll
cut their way in," exclaimed one of the young men--"the stones are
exhausted, and I don't know what we shall do."

Just then the splash of water was heard, followed by shrieks of agony.

"Oh, God! I'm scalded! I'm scalded!" cried one of the men upon the steps.
"Take me away! take me away!"

In the midst of his cries another volume of scalding water came pouring
down upon the group at the door, which was followed by a rush from the
premises.

"What is that--who could have done that--where has that water come from?"
asked Mr. Walters, as he saw the seething shower pass the window, and fall
upon the heads below. "I must go and see."

He ran upstairs, and found Kinch and Caddy busy putting on more water, they
having exhausted one kettle-full--into which they had put two or three
pounds of cayenne pepper--on the heads of the crowd below.

"We gave 'em a settler, didn't we, Mr. Walters?" asked Caddy, as he entered
the room. "It takes us; we fight with hot water. This," said she, holding
up a dipper, "is my gun. I guess we made 'em squeal."

"You've done well, Caddy," replied he--"first-rate, my girl. I believe
you've driven them off entirely," he continued, peeping out of the window.
"They are going off, at any rate," said he, drawing in his head; "whether
they will return or not is more than I can say. Keep plenty of hot water,
ready, but don't expose yourselves, children. Weren't you afraid to go to
the window?" he asked.

"We didn't go near it. Look at this," replied Caddy, fitting a broom handle
into the end of a very large tin dipper. "Kinch cut this to fit; so we have
nothing to do but to stand back here, dip up the water, and let them have
it; the length of the handle keeps us from being seen from the street. That
was Kinch's plan."

"And a capital one it was too. Your head, Kinch, evidently has no batter
within, if it has without; there is a great deal in that. Keep a bright
look out," continued Mr. Walters; "I'm going downstairs. If they come
again, let them have plenty of your warm pepper-sauce."

On returning to the drawing-room, Mr. Walters found Mr. Dennis, one of the
company, preparing to go out. "I'm about to avail myself of the advantage
afforded by my fair complexion, and play the spy," said he. "They can't
discern at night what I am, and I may be able to learn some of their
plans."

"A most excellent idea," said Mr. Walters; "but pray be careful. You may
meet some one who will recognise you."

"Never fear," replied Mr. Dennis. "I'll keep a bright look out for that."
And, drawing his cap far down over his eyes, to screen his face as much as
possible, he sallied out into the street.

He had not been absent more than a quarter of an hour, when he returned
limping into the house. "Have they attacked you--are you hurt?" asked the
anxious group by which he was surrounded.

"I'm hurt-, but not by them. I got on very well, and gleaned a great deal
of information, when I heard a sudden exclamation, and, on looking round, I
found myself recognized by a white man of my acquaintance. I ran
immediately; and whether I was pursued or not, I'm unable to say. I had
almost reached here, when my foot caught in a grating and gave my ancle
such a wrench that I'm unable to stand." As he spoke, his face grew pale
from the suffering the limb was occasioning. "I'm sorry, very sorry," he
continued, limping to the sofa; "I was going out again immediately. They
intend making an attack on Mr. Garie's house: I didn't hear his name
mentioned, but I heard one of the men, who appeared to be a ringleader,
say, 'We're going up to Winter-street, to give a coat of tar and feathers
to a white man, who is married to a <DW65> woman.' They can allude to none
but him. How annoying that this accident should have happened just now, of
all times. They ought to be warned."

"Oh, poor Emily!" cried Esther, bursting into tears; "it will kill her, I
know it will; she is so ill. Some one must go and warn them. Let me try;
the mob, even if I met them, surely would not assault a woman."

"You mustn't think of such a thing, Esther," exclaimed Mr. Walters; "the
idea isn't to be entertained for a moment. You don't know what ruthless
wretches they are. Your colour discovered you would find your sex but a
trifling protection. I'd go, but it would be certain death to me: my black
face would quickly obtain for me a passport to another world if I were
discovered in the street just now."

"I'll go," calmly spoke Mr. Ellis. "I can't rest here and think of what
they are exposed to. By skulking through bye-streets and keeping under the
shadows of houses I may escape observation--at any rate, I must run the
risk." And he began to button up his coat. "Don't let your mother know I'm
gone; stick by her, my girl," said he, kissing Esther; "trust in
God,--He'll protect me."

Esther hung sobbing on her father's neck. "Oh, father, father," said she,
"I couldn't bear to see you go for any one but Emily and the children."

"I know it, dear," he replied; "it's my duty. Garie would do the same for
me, I know, even at greater risk. Good-bye! good-bye!" And, disengaging
himself from the weeping girl, he started on his errand of mercy.

Walking swiftly forwards, he passed over more than two-thirds of the way
without the slightest interruption, the streets through which he passed
being almost entirely deserted. He had arrived within a couple of squares
of the Garies, when suddenly, on turning a corner, he found himself in the
midst of a gang of ruffians.

"Here's a <DW65>! here's a <DW65>!" shouted two or three of them, almost
simultaneously, making at the same time a rush at Mr. Ellis, who turned and
ran, followed by the whole gang. Fear lent him wings, and he fast
outstripped his pursuers, and would have entirely escaped, had he not
turned into a street which unfortunately was closed at the other end. This
he did not discover until it was too late to retrace his steps, his
pursuers having already entered the street.

Looking for some retreat, he perceived he was standing near an unfinished
building. Tearing off the boards that were nailed across the window, he
vaulted into the room, knocking off his hat, which fell upon the pavement
behind him. Scarcely had he groped his way to the staircase of the dwelling
when he heard the footsteps of his pursuers.

"He can't have got through," exclaimed one of them, "the street is closed
up at the end; he must be up here somewhere."

Lighting one of their torches, they began to look around them, and soon
discovered the hat lying beneath the window.

"He's in here, boys; we've tree'd the '<DW53>," laughingly exclaimed one of
the ruffians. "Let's after him."

Tearing off the remainder of the boards, one or two entered, opened the
door from the inside, and gave admission to the rest.

Mr. Ellis mounted to the second story, followed by his pursuers; on he
went, until he reached the attic, from which a ladder led to the roof.
Ascending this, he drew it up after him, and found himself on the roof of a
house that was entirely isolated.

The whole extent of the danger flashed upon him at once. Here he was
completely hemmed in, without the smallest chance for escape. He
approached the edge and looked over, but could discover nothing near enough
to reach by a leap.

"I must sell my life dearly," he said. "God be my helper now--He is all I
have to rely upon." And as he spoke, the great drops of sweat fell from his
forehead. Espying a sheet of lead upon the roof, he rolled it into a club
of tolerable thickness, and waited the approach of his pursuers.

"He's gone on the roof," he heard one of them exclaim, "and pulled the
ladder up after him." Just then, a head emerged from the trap-door, the
owner of which, perceiving Mr. Ellis, set up a shout of triumph.

"We've got him! we've got him!--here he is!" which cries were answered by
the exultant voices of his comrades below.

An attempt was now made by one of them to gain the roof; but he immediately
received a blow from Mr. Ellis that knocked him senseless into the arms of
his companions. Another attempted the same feat, and met a similar fate.

This caused a parley as to the best mode of proceeding, which resulted in
the simultaneous appearance of three of the rioters at the opening. Nothing
daunted, Mr. Ellis attacked them with such fierceness and energy that they
were forced to descend, muttering the direst curses. In a few moments
another head appeared, at which Mr. Ellis aimed a blow of great force; and
the club descended upon a hat placed upon a stick. Not meeting the
resistance expected, it flew from his hand, and he was thrown forward,
nearly falling down the doorway.

With a shout of triumph, they seized his arm, and held him firmly, until
one or two of them mounted the roof.

"Throw him over! throw him over!" exclaimed some of the fiercest of the
crowd. One or two of the more merciful endeavoured to interfere against
killing him outright; but the frenzy of the majority triumphed, and they
determined to cast him into the street below.

Mr. Ellis clung to the chimney, shrieking,--"Save me! save me!--Help! help!
Will no one save me!" His cries were unheeded by the ruffians, and the
people at the surrounding windows were unable to afford him any assistance,
even if they were disposed to do so.

Despite his cries and resistance, they forced him to the edge of the roof;
he clinging to them the while, and shrieking in agonized terror. Forcing
off his hold, they thrust him forward and got him partially over the edge,
where he clung calling frantically for aid. One of the villains, to make
him loose his hold, struck on his fingers with the handle of a hatchet
found on the roof; not succeeding in breaking his hold by these means,
with, an oath he struck with the blade, severing two of the fingers from
one hand and deeply mangling the other.

With a yell of agony, Mr. Ellis let go his hold, and fell upon a pile of
rubbish below, whilst a cry of triumphant malignity went up from the crowd
on the roof.

A gentleman and some of his friends kindly carried the insensible man into
his house. "Poor fellow!" said he, "he is killed, I believe. What a gang of
wretches. These things are dreadful; that such a thing can be permitted in
a Christian city is perfectly appalling." The half-dressed family gathered
around the mangled form of Mr. Ellis, and gave vent to loud expressions of
sympathy. A doctor was quickly sent for, who stanched the blood that was
flowing from his hands and head.

"I don't think he can live," said he, "the fall was too great. As far as I
can judge, his legs and two of his ribs are broken. The best thing we can
do, is to get him conveyed to the hospital; look in his pockets, perhaps we
can find out who he is."

There was nothing found, however, that afforded the least clue to his name
and residence; and he was, therefore, as soon as persons could be procured
to assist, borne to the hospital, where his wounds were dressed, and the
broken limbs set.



CHAPTER XXI.

More Horrors.


Unaware of the impending danger, Mr. Garie sat watching by the bedside of
his wife. She had been quite ill; but on the evening of which we write,
although nervous and wakeful, was much better. The bleak winds of the fast
approaching winter dealt unkindly with her delicate frame, accustomed as
she was to the soft breezes of her Southern home.

Mr. Garie had been sitting up looking at the fires in the lower part of the
city. Not having been out all that day or the one previous, he knew nothing
of the fearful state into which matters had fallen.

"Those lights are dying away, my dear," said he to his wife; "there must
have been quite an extensive conflagration." Taking out his watch, he
continued, "almost two o'clock; why, how late I've been sitting up. I
really don't know whether it's worth while to go to bed or not, I should be
obliged to get up again at five o'clock; I go to New York to-morrow, or
rather to-day; there are some matters connected with Uncle John's will that
require my personal attention. Dear old man, how suddenly he died."

"I wish, dear, you could put off your journey until I am better," said Mrs.
Garie, faintly; "I do hate you to go just now."

"I would if I could, Emily; but it is impossible. I shall be back
to-morrow, or the next day, at farthest. Whilst I'm there, I'll----"

"Hush!" interrupted Mrs. Garie, "stop a moment. Don't you hear a noise like
the shouting of a great many people." "Oh, it's only the firemen,"
replied he; "as I was about to observe--"

"Hush!" cried she again. "Listen now, that don't sound like the firemen in
the least." Mr. Garie paused as the sound of a number of voices became more
distinct.

Wrapping his dressing-gown more closely about him, he walked into the front
room, which overlooked the street. Opening the window, he saw a number of
men--some bearing torches--coming rapidly in the direction of his dwelling.
"I wonder what all this is for; what can it mean," he exclaimed.

They had now approached sufficiently near for him to understand their
cries. "Down with the Abolitionist--down with the Amalgamationist! give
them tar and feathers!"

"It's a mob--and that word Amalgamationist--can it be pointed at me? It
hardly seems possible; and yet I have a fear that there is something
wrong."

"What is it, Garie? What is the matter?" asked his wife, who, with a shawl
hastily thrown across her shoulders, was standing pale and trembling by the
window.

"Go in, Emily, my dear, for Heaven's sake; you'll get your death of cold in
this bleak night air--go in; as soon as I discover the occasion of the
disturbance, I'll come and tell you. Pray go in." Mrs. Garie retired a few
feet from the window, and stood listening to the shouts in the street.

The rioters, led on evidently by some one who knew what he was about,
pressed forward to Mr. Garie's house; and soon the garden in front was
filled with the shouting crowd.

"What do you all want--why are you on my premises, creating this
disturbance?" cried Mr. Garie.

"Come down and you'll soon find out. You white livered Abolitionist, come
out, damn you! we are going to give you a coat of tar and feathers, and
your black wench nine-and-thirty. Yes, come down--come down!" shouted
several, "or we will come up after you."

"I warn you," replied Mr. Garie, "against any attempt at violence upon my
person, family, or property. I forbid you to advance another foot upon the
premises. If any man of you enters my house, I'll shoot him down as quick
as I would a mad dog."

"Shut up your gap; none of your cussed speeches," said a voice in the
crowd; "if you don't come down and give yourself up, we'll come in and take
you--that's the talk, ain't it, boys?" A general shout of approval answered
this speech, and several stones were thrown at Mr. Garie, one of which
struck him on the breast.

Seeing the utter futility of attempting to parley with the infuriated
wretches below, he ran into the room, exclaiming, "Put on some clothes,
Emily! shoes first--quick--quick, wife!--your life depends upon it. I'll
bring down the children and wake the servants. We must escape from the
house--we are attacked by a mob of demons. Hurry, Emily! do, for God sake!"

Mr. Garie aroused the sleeping children, and threw some clothes upon them,
over which he wrapped shawls or blankets, or whatever came to hand. Rushing
into the next room, he snatched a pair of loaded pistols from the drawer of
his dressing-stand, and then hurried his terrified wife and children down
the stairs.

"This way, dear--this way!" he cried, leading on toward the back door; "out
that way through the gate with the children, and into some of the
neighbour's houses. I'll stand here to keep the way."

"No, no, Garie," she replied, frantically; "I won't go without you."

"You must!" he cried, stamping his foot impatiently; "this is no time to
parley--go, or we shall all be murdered. Listen, they've broken in the
door. Quick--quick! go on;" and as he spoke, he pressed her and the
children out of the door, and closed it behind them.

Mrs. Garie ran down the garden, followed by the children; to her horror,
she found the gate locked, and the key nowhere to be found.

"What shall we do?" she cried. "Oh, we shall all be killed!" and her limbs
trembled beneath her with cold and terror. "Let us hide in here, mother,"
suggested Clarence, running toward the wood-house; "we'll be safe in
there." Seeing that nothing better could be done, Mrs. Garie availed
herself of the suggestion; and when she was fairly inside the place, fell
fainting upon the ground.

As she escaped through the back door, the mob broke in at the front, and
were confronting Mr. Garie, as he stood with his pistol pointed at them,
prepared to fire.

"Come another step forward and I fire!" exclaimed he, resolutely; but those
in the rear urged the advance of those in front, who approached cautiously
nearer and nearer their victim. Fearful of opening the door behind him,
lest he should show the way taken by his retreating wife, he stood
uncertain how to act; a severe blow from a stone, however, made him lose
all reflection, and he immediately fired. A loud shriek followed the report
of his pistol, and a shower of stones was immediately hurled upon him.

He quickly fired again, and was endeavouring to open the door to effect his
escape, when a pistol was discharged close to his head and he fell forward
on the entry floor lifeless.

All this transpired in a few moments, and in the semi-darkness of the
entry. Rushing forward over his lifeless form, the villains hastened
upstairs in search of Mrs. Garie. They ran shouting through the house,
stealing everything valuable that they could lay their hands upon, and
wantonly destroying the furniture; they would have fired the house, but
were prevented by McCloskey, who acted as leader of the gang.

For two long hours they ransacked the house, breaking all they could not
carry off, drinking the wine in Mr. Garie's cellar, and shouting and
screaming like so many fiends.

Mrs. Garie and the children lay crouching with terror in the wood-house,
listening to the ruffians as they went through the yard cursing her and her
husband and uttering the direst threats of what they would do should she
fall into their hands. Once she almost fainted on hearing one of them
propose opening the wood-house, to see if there was anything of value in
it--but breathed again when they abandoned it as not worth their attention.

The children crouched down beside her--scarcely daring to whisper, lest
they should attract the attention of their persecutors. Shivering with cold
they drew closer around them the blanket with which they had been
providentially provided.

"Brother, my feet are _so_ cold," sobbed little Em. "I can't feel my toes.
Oh, I'm so cold!"

"Put your feet closer to me, sissy," answered her brother, baring himself
to enwrap her more thoroughly; "put my stockings on over yours;" and, as
well as they were able in the dark, he drew his stockings on over her
benumbed feet. "There, sis, that's better," he whispered, with an attempt
at cheerfulness, "now you'll be warmer."

Just then Clarence heard a groan from his mother, so loud indeed that it
would have been heard without but for the noise and excitement around the
house--and feeling for her in the dark, he asked, "Mother, are you worse?
are you sick?"

A groan was her only answer.

"Mother, mother," he whispered, "do speak, please do!" and he endeavoured
to put his arm around her.

"Don't, dear--don't," said she, faintly, "just take care of your
sister--you can't do me any good--don't speak, dear, the men will hear
you."

Reluctantly the frightened child turned his attention again to his little
sister; ever and anon suppressed groans from his mother would reach his
ears--at last he heard a groan even fierce in its intensity; and then the
sounds grew fainter and fainter until they entirely ceased. The night to
the poor shivering creatures in their hiding place seemed interminably
long, and the sound of voices in the house had not long ceased when the
faint light of day pierced their cheerless shelter.

Hearing the voices of some neighbours in the yard, Clarence hastened out,
and seizing one of the ladies by the dress, cried imploringly, "Do come to
my mother, she's sick."

"Why, where did you come from, chil?" said the lady, with a start of
astonishment. "Where have you been?"

"In there," he answered, pointing to the wood-house. "Mother and sister are
in there."

The lady, accompanied by one or two others, hastened to the wood-house.

"Where is she?" asked the foremost, for in the gloom of the place she could
not perceive anything.

"Here," replied Clarence, "she's lying here." On opening a small window,
they saw Mrs. Garie lying in a corner stretched upon the boards, her head
supported by some blocks. "She's asleep," said Clarence. "Mother--mother,"
but there came no answer. "MOTHER," said he, still louder, but yet there
was no response.

Stepping forward, one of the females opened the shawl, which was held
firmly in the clenched hands of Mrs. Garie--and there in her lap partially
covered by her scanty nightdress, was discovered a new-born babe, who with
its mother had journeyed in the darkness, cold, and night, to the better
land, that they might pour out their woes upon the bosom of their Creator.

The women gazed in mournful silence on the touching scene before them.
Clarence was on his knees, regarding with fear and wonder the unnatural
stillness of his mother--the child had never before looked on death, and
could not recognize its presence. Laying his hand on her cold cheek, he
cried, with faltering voice, "Mother, _can't_ you speak?" but there was no
answering light in the fixed stare of those glassy eyes, and the lips of
the dead could not move. "Why don't she speak?" he asked.

"She can't, my dear; you must come away and leave her. She's better off, my
darling--she's _dead_."

Then there was a cry of grief sprung up from the heart of that orphan boy,
that rang in those women's ears for long years after; it was the first
outbreak of a loving childish heart pierced with life's bitterest grief--a
mother's loss.

The two children were kindly taken into the house of some benevolent
neighbour, as the servants had all fled none knew whither. Little Em was in
a profound stupor--the result of cold and terror, and it was found
necessary to place her under the care of a physician.

After they had all gone, an inquest was held by the coroner, and a very
unsatisfactory and untruthful verdict pronounced--one that did not at all
coincide with the circumstances of the case, but such a one as might have
been expected where there was a great desire to screen the affair from
public scrutiny.



CHAPTER XXII.

An Anxious Day.


Esther Ellis, devoured with anxiety respecting the safety of her father and
the Garies, paced with impatient step up and down the drawing-room. Opening
the window, she looked to see if she could discover any signs of day. "It's
pitchy dark," she exclaimed, "and yet almost five o'clock. Father has run a
fearful risk. I hope nothing has happened to him."

"I trust not. I think he's safe enough somewhere," said Mr. Walters. "He's
no doubt been very cautious, and avoided meeting any one--don't worry
yourself, my child, 'tis most likely he remained with them wherever they
went; probably they are at the house of some of their neighbours."

"I can't help feeling dreadfully oppressed and anxious," continued she. "I
wish he would come."

Whilst she was speaking, her mother entered the room. "Any news of your
father?" she asked, in a tone of anxiety.

Esther endeavoured to conceal her own apprehensions, and rejoined, in as
cheerful tone as she could assume--"Not yet, mother--it's too dark for us
to expect him yet--he'll remain most likely until daylight."

"He shouldn't have gone had I been here--he's no business to expose himself
in this way."

"But, mother," interrupted Esther, "only think of it--the safety of Emily
and the children were depending on it--we mustn't be selfish."

"I know we oughtn't to be, my child," rejoined her mother, "but it's
natural to the best of us--sometimes we can't help it." Five--six--seven
o'clock came and passed, and still there were no tidings of Mr. Ellis.

"I can bear this suspense no longer," exclaimed Esther. "If father don't
come soon, I shall go and look for him. I've tried to flatter myself that
he's safe; but I'm almost convinced now that something has happened to him,
or he'd have come back long before this--he knows how anxious we would all
be about him. I've tried to quiet mother and Caddy by suggesting various
reasons for his delay, but, at the same time, I cannot but cherish the most
dismal forebodings. I must go and look for him."

"No, no, Esther--stay where you are at present--leave that to me. I'll
order a carriage and go up to Garie's immediately."

"Well, do, Mr. Walters, and hurry back: won't you?" she rejoined, as he
left the apartment.

In a few moments he returned, prepared to start, and was speedily driven to
Winter-street. He found a group of people gathered before the gate, gazing
into the house. "The place has been attacked," said he, as he walked
towards the front door--picking his way amidst fragments of furniture,
straw, and broken glass. At the entrance of the house he was met by Mr.
Balch, Mr. Garie's lawyer.

"This is a shocking affair, Walters," said he, extending his hand--he was
an old friend of Mr. Walters.

"Very shocking, indeed," he replied, looking around. "But where is Garie?
We sent to warn them of this. I hope they are all safe."

"Safe!" repeated Mr. Balch, with an air of astonishment. "Why, man, haven't
you heard?"

"Heard what?" asked Mr. Walters, looking alarmed.

"That Mr. and Mrs. Garie are dead--both were killed last night."

The shock of this sudden and totally unexpected disclosure was such that
Mr. Walters leaned against the doorway for support. "It can't be possible,"
he exclaimed at last, "not dead!" "Yes, _dead_, I regret to say--he was
shot through the head--and she died in the wood-house, of premature
confinement, brought on by fright and exposure."

"And the children?" gasped Walters.

"They are safe, with some neighbours--it's heart-breaking to hear them
weeping for their mother." Here a tear glistened in the eye of Mr. Balch,
and ran down his cheek. Brushing it off, he continued: "The coroner has
just held an inquest, and they gave a most truthless verdict: nothing
whatever is said of the cause of the murder, or of the murderers; they
simply rendered a verdict--death caused by a wound from a pistol-shot, and
hers--death from exposure. There seemed the greatest anxiety on the part of
the coroner to get the matter over as quickly as possible, and few or no
witnesses were examined. But I'm determined to sift the matter to the
bottom; if the perpetrators of the murder can be discovered, I'll leave no
means untried to find them."

"Do you know any one who sat on the inquest?" asked Walters.

"Yes, one," was the reply, "Slippery George, the lawyer; you are acquainted
with him--George Stevens. I find he resides next door."

"Do you know," here interrupted Mr. Walters, "that I've my suspicions that
that villain is at the bottom of these disturbances or at least has a large
share in them. I have a paper in my possession, in his handwriting--it is
in fact a list of the places destroyed by the mob last night--it fell into
the hands of a friend of mine by accident--he gave it to me--it put me on
my guard; and when the villains attacked my house last night they got
rather a warmer reception than they bargained for."

"You astonish me! Is it possible your place was assaulted also?" asked Mr.
Balch.

"Indeed, it was--and a hot battle we had of it for a short space of time.
But how did you hear of this affair?"

"I was sent for by I can't tell whom. When I came and saw what had
happened, I immediately set about searching for a will that I made for Mr.
Garie a few weeks since; it was witnessed and signed at my office, and he
brought it away with him. I can't discover it anywhere. I've ransacked
every cranny. It must have been carried off by some one. You are named in
it conjointly with myself as executor. All the property is left to her,
poor thing, and his children. We must endeavour to find it somewhere--at
any rate the children are secure; they are the only heirs--he had not, to
my knowledge, a single white relative. But let us go in and see the
bodies."

They walked together into the back room where the bodies were lying. Mrs.
Garie was stretched upon the sofa, covered with a piano cloth; and her
husband was laid upon a long table, with a silk window-curtain thrown
across his face.

The two gazed in silence on the face of Mr. Garie--the brow was still knit,
the eyes staring vacantly, and the marble whiteness of the face unbroken,
save by a few gouts of blood near a small blue spot over the eye where the
bullet had entered.

"He was the best-hearted creature in the world," said Walters, as he
re-covered the face.

"Won't you look at her?" asked Mr. Balch.

"No, no--I can't," continued Walters; "I've seen horrors enough for one
morning. I've another thing on my mind! A friend who assisted in the
defence of my house started up here last night, to warn them of their
danger, and when I left home he had not returned: it's evident he hasn't
been here, and I greatly fear some misfortune has befallen him. Where are
the children? Poor little orphans, I must see them before I go."

Accompanied by Mr. Balch, he called at the house where Clarence and Em had
found temporary shelter. The children ran to him as soon as he entered the
room. "Oh! Mr. Walters," sobbed Clarence, "my mother's dead--my mother's
dead!"

"Hush, dears--hush!" he replied, endeavouring to restrain his own tears, as
he took little Em in his arms. "Don't cry, my darling," said he, as she
gave rent to a fresh outburst of tears.

"Oh, Mr. Walters!" said she, still sobbing, "she was all the mother I had."

Mr. Balch here endeavoured to assist in pacifying the two little mourners.

"Why don't father come?" asked Clarence. "Have you seen him, Mr. Walters?"

Mr. Walters was quite taken aback by this inquiry, which clearly showed
that the children were still unaware of the extent of their misfortunes.
"I've seen him, my child," said he, evasively; "you'll see him before
long." And fearful of further questioning, he left the house, promising
soon to return.

Unable longer to endure her anxiety respecting her father, Esther
determined not to await the return of Mr. Walters, which had already been
greatly delayed, but to go herself in search of him. It had occurred to her
that, instead of returning from the Garies direct to them, he had probably
gone to his own home to see if it had been disturbed during the night.

Encouraged by this idea, without consulting any one, she hastily put on her
cloak and bonnet, and took the direction of her home. Numbers of people
were wending their way to the lower part of the city, to gratify their
curiosity by gazing upon the havoc made by the rioters during the past
night.

Esther found her home a heap of smoking ruins; some of the neighbours who
recognized her gathered round, expressing their sympathy and regret. But
she seemed comparatively careless respecting the loss of their property;
and in answer to their kind expressions, could only ask, "Have you seen my
father?--do you know where my father is?"

None, however, had seen him; and after gazing for a short time upon the
ruins of what was once a happy home, she turned mournfully away, and walked
back to Mr. Walters's.

"Has father come?" she inquired, as soon as the door was opened. "Not
yet!" was the discouraging reply: "and Mr. Walters, he hasn't come back,
either, miss!"

Esther stood for some moments hesitating whether to go in, or to proceed in
her search. The voice of her mother calling her from the stairway decided
her, and she went in.

Mrs. Ellis and Caddy wept freely on learning from Esther the destruction of
their home. This cause of grief, added to the anxiety produced by the
prolonged absence of Mr. Ellis, rendered them truly miserable.

Whilst they were condoling with one another, Mr. Walters returned. He was
unable to conceal his fears that something had happened to Mr. Ellis, and
frankly told them so; he also gave a detailed account of what had befallen
the Garies, to the great horror and grief of all.

As soon as arrangements could be made, Mr. Walters and Esther set out in
search of her father. All day long they went from place to place, but
gained no tidings of him; and weary and disheartened they returned at
night, bringing with them the distressing intelligence of their utter
failure to procure any information respecting him.



CHAPTER XXIII.

The Lost One Found.


On the day succeeding the events described in our last chapter, Mr. Walters
called upon Mr. Balch, for the purpose of making the necessary preparations
for the interment of Mr. and Mrs. Garie.

"I think," said Mr. Balch, "we had better bury them in the Ash-grove
cemetery; it's a lovely spot--all my people are buried there."

"The place is fine enough, I acknowledge," rejoined Mr. Walters; "but I
much doubt if you can procure the necessary ground."

"Oh, yes, you can!" said Mr. Balch; "there are a number of lots still
unappropriated."

"That may very likely be so; but are you sure we can get one if we apply?"

"Of course we can--what is to prevent?" asked Mr. Balch.

"You forget," replied Mr. Walters, "that Mrs. Garie was a <DW52> woman."

"If it wasn't such a solemn subject I really should be obliged to laugh at
you, Walters," rejoined Mr. Balch, with a smile--"you talk ridiculously.
What can her complexion have to do with her being buried there, I should
like to know?"

"It has everything to do with it! Can it be possible you are not aware that
they won't even permit a <DW52> person to walk through the ground, much
less to be buried there!"

"You astonish me, Walters! Are you sure of it?"

"I give you my word of honour it is so! But why should you be astonished at
such treatment of the dead, when you see how they conduct themselves
towards the living? I have a friend," continued Mr. Walters, "who
purchased a pew for himself and family in a white-church, and the deacons
actually removed the floor from under it, to prevent his sitting there.
They refuse us permission to kneel by the side of the white communicants at
the Lord's Supper, and give us separate pews in obscure corners of their
churches. All this you know--why, then, be surprised that they carry their
prejudices into their graveyards?--the conduct is all of a piece."

"Well, Walters, I know the way things are conducted in our churches is
exceedingly reprehensible; but I really did not know they stretched their
prejudices to such an extent."

"I assure you they do, then," resumed Mr. Walters; "and in this very matter
you'll find I'm correct. Ask Stormley, the undertaker, and hear what he'll
tell you. Oh! a case in point.--About six months ago, one of our wealthiest
citizens lost by death an old family servant, a <DW52> woman, a sort of
half-housekeeper--half-friend. She resembled him so much, that it was
generally believed she was his sister. Well, he tried to have her laid in
their family vault, and it was refused; the directors thought it would be
creating a bad precedent--they said, as they would not sell lots to
<DW52> persons, they couldn't consistently permit them to be buried in
those of the whites."

"Then Ash-grove must be abandoned; and in lieu of that what can you
propose?" asked Mr. Balch.

"I should say we can't do better than lay them in the graveyard of the
 Episcopal church."

"Let it be there, then. You will see to the arrangements, Walters. I shall
have enough on my hands for the present, searching for that will: I have
already offered a large reward for it--I trust it may turn up yet."

"Perhaps it may," rejoined Mr. Walters; "we must hope so, at least. I've
brought the children to my house, where they are under the care of a young
lady who was a great friend of their mother's; though it seems like putting
too much upon the poor young creature, to throw them upon her for
consolation, when she is almost distracted with her own griefs. I think I
mentioned to you yesterday, that her father is missing; and, to add to
their anxieties, their property has been all destroyed by the rioters. They
have a home with me for the present, and may remain there as long as they
please."

"Oh! I remember you told me something of them yesterday; and now I come to
think of it, I saw in the Journal this morning, that a <DW52> man was
lying at the hospital very much injured, whose name they could not
ascertain. Can it be possible that he is the man you are in search of?"

"Let me see the article," asked Mr. Walters. Mr. Balch handed him the
paper, and pointed out the paragraph in question.

"I'll go immediately to the hospital," said he, as he finished reading,
"and see if it is my poor friend; I have great fears that it is. You'll
excuse my leaving so abruptly--I must be off immediately."

On hastening to the hospital, Mr. Walters arrived just in time to be
admitted to the wards; and on being shown the person whose name they had
been unable to discover, he immediately recognized his friend.

"Ellis, my poor fellow," he exclaimed, springing forward.

"Stop, stop," cried the attendant, laying his hand upon Mr. Walters's
shoulder; "he is hovering between life and death, the least agitation might
be fatal to him. The doctor says, if he survives the night, he may probably
get better; but he has small chance of life. I hardly think he will last
twelve hours more, he's been dreadfully beaten; there are two or three
gashes on his head, his leg is broken, and his hands have been so much cut,
that the surgeon thinks they'll never be of any use to him, even if he
recovers."

"What awful intelligence for his family," said Mr. Walters; "they are
already half distracted about him."

Mr. Ellis lay perfectly unconscious of what was passing around him, and his
moans were deeply affecting to hear, unable to move but one limb--he was
the picture of helplessness and misery.

"It's time to close; we don't permit visitors to remain after this hour,"
said the attendant; "come to-morrow, you can see your friend, and remain
longer with him;" and bidding Mr. Walters good morning, he ushered him from
the ward.

"How shall I ever find means to break this to the girls and their mother?"
said he, as he left the gates of the hospital; "it will almost kill them;
really I don't know what I shall say to them."

He walked homeward with hesitating steps, and on arriving at his house, he
paused awhile before the door, mustering up courage to enter; at last he
opened it with the air of a man who had a disagreeable duty to perform, and
had made up his mind to go through with it. "Tell Miss Ellis to come to the
drawing-room," said he to the servant; "merely say she's wanted--don't say
I've returned."

He waited but a few moments before Esther made her appearance, looking sad
and anxious. "Oh, it's you," she said, with some surprise. "You have news
of father?"

"Yes, Esther, I have news; but I am sorry to say not of a pleasant
character."

"Oh, Mr. Walters, nothing serious I hope has happened to him?" she asked,
in an agitated tone.

"I'm sorry to say there has, Esther; he has met with an accident--a sad and
severe one--he's been badly wounded." Esther turned deadly pale at this
announcement, and leaned upon the table for support.

"I sent for you, Esther," continued Mr. Walters, "in preference to your
mother, because I knew you to be courageous in danger, and I trusted you
would be equally so in misfortune. Your father's case is a very critical
one--very. It appears that after leaving here, he fell into the hands of
the rioters, by whom he was shockingly beaten. He was taken to the
hospital, where he now remains."

"Oh, let me go to him at once, do, Mr. Walters!

"My dear child, it is impossible for you to see him to-day, it is long past
the visiting hour; moreover, I don't think him in a state that would permit
the least agitation. To-morrow you can go with me." Esther did not weep,
her heart was too full for tears. With a pale face, and trembling lips, she
said to Mr. Walters, "God give us strength to bear up under these
misfortunes; we are homeless--almost beggars--our friends have been
murdered, and my father is now trembling on the brink of the grave; such
troubles as these," said she, sinking into a chair, "are enough to crush
any one."

"I know it, Esther; I know it, my child. I sympathize with you deeply. All
that I have is at your disposal. You may command me in anything. Give
yourself no uneasiness respecting the future of your mother and family, let
the result to your father be what it may: always bear in mind that, next to
God, I am your best friend. I speak thus frankly to you, Esther, because I
would not have you cherish any hopes of your father's recovery; from his
appearance, I should say there is but little, if any. I leave to you, my
good girl, the task of breaking this sad news to your mother and sister; I
would tell them, but I must confess, Esther, I'm not equal to it, the
events of the last day or two have almost overpowered me."

Esther's lips quivered again, as she repeated the words, "Little hope; did
the doctor say that?" she asked.

"I did not see the doctor," replied he; "perhaps there may be a favourable
change during the night. I'd have you prepare for the worst, whilst you
hope for the best. Go now and try to break it as gently as possible to your
mother."

Esther left the room with heavy step, and walked to the chamber where her
mother was sitting. Caddy also was there, rocking backwards and forwards in
a chair, in an earnest endeavour to soothe to sleep little Em, who was
sitting in her lap.

"Who was it, Esther?" asked, her mother.

"Mr. Walters," she hesitatingly answered.

"Was it? Well, has he heard anything of your father?" she asked, anxiously.

Esther turned away her head, and remained silent.

"Why don't you answer?" asked her mother, with an alarmed look; "if you
know anything of him, for God's sake tell me. Whatever it may be, it can't
be worse than I expect; is he dead?" she asked.

"No--no, mother, he's not dead; but he's sick, very sick, mother. Mr.
Walters found him in the hospital."

"In the hospital! how came he there? Don't deceive me, Esther, there's
something behind all this; are you telling me the truth? is he still
alive?"

"Mother, believe me, he is still alive, but how long he may remain so, God
only knows." Mrs. Ellis, at this communication, leant her head upon the
table, and wept uncontrollably. Caddy put down her little charge, and stood
beside her mother, endeavouring to soothe her, whilst unable to restrain
her own grief.

"Let us go to him, Esther," said her mother, rising; "I must see him--let
us go at once."

"We can't, mother; Mr. Walters says it's impossible for us to see him
to-day; they don't admit visitors after a certain hour in the morning."

"They _must_ admit me: I'll tell them I'm his wife; when they know that,
they _can't_ refuse me." Quickly dressing themselves, Esther, Caddy, and
their mother were about to start for the hospital, when Mr. Walters
entered.

"Where are you all going?" he asked.

"To the hospital," answered Mrs. Ellis; "I must see my husband."

"I have just sent there, Ellen, to make arrangements to hear of him every
hour. You will only have the grief of being refused admission if you go;
they're exceedingly strict--no one is admitted to visit a patient after a
certain hour; try and compose yourselves; sit down, I want to talk to you
for a little while."

Mrs. Ellis mechanically obeyed; and on sitting down, little Em crept into
her lap, and nestled in her arms.

"Ellen," said Mr. Walters, taking a seat by her; "it's useless to disguise
the fact that Ellis is in a precarious situation--how long he may be sick
it is impossible to say; as soon as it is practicable, should he get
better, we will bring him here. You remember, Ellen, that years ago, when I
was young and poor, Ellis often befriended me--now 'tis my turn. You must
all make up your minds to remain with me--for ever, if you like--for the
present, whether you like it or not. I'm going to be dreadfully obstinate,
and have my own way completely about the matter. Here I've a large house,
furnished from top to bottom with every comfort. Often I've wandered
through it, and thought myself a selfish old fellow to be surrounded with
so much luxury, and keep it entirely to myself. God has blessed me with
abundance, and to what better use can it be appropriated than the relief of
my friends? Now, Ellen, you shall superintend the whole of the
establishment, Esther shall nurse her father, Caddy shall stir up the
servants, and I'll look on and find my happiness in seeing you all happy.
Now, what objection can you urge against that arrangement?" concluded he,
triumphantly.

"Why, we shall put you to great inconvenience, and place ourselves under an
obligation we can never repay," answered Mrs. Ellis.

"Don't despair of that--never mind the obligation; try and be as cheerful
as you can; to-morrow we shall see Ellis, and perhaps find him better; let
us at least hope for the best."

Esther looked with grateful admiration at Mr. Walters, as he left the room.
"What a good heart he has, mother," said she, as he closed the door behind
him; "just such a great tender heart as one should expect to find in so
fine a form."

Mrs. Ellis and her daughters were the first who were found next day, at the
office of the doorkeeper of the hospital waiting an opportunity to see
their sick friends.

"You're early, ma'am," said a little bald-headed official, who sat at his
desk fronting the door; "take a chair near the fire--it's dreadful cold
this morning."

"Very cold," replied Esther, taking a seat beside her mother; "how long
will it be before we can go in?"

"Oh, you've good an hour to wait--the doctor hasn't come yet," replied the
door-keeper. "How is my husband?" tremblingly inquired Mrs. Ellis.

"Who is your husband?--you don't know his number, do you? Never know names
here--go by numbers."

"We don't know the number," rejoined Esther; "my father's name is Ellis; he
was brought here two or three nights since--he was beaten by the mob."

"Oh, yes; I know now who you mean--number sixty--bad case that, shocking
bad case--hands chopped--head smashed--leg broke; he'll have to cross over,
I guess--make a die of it, I'm afraid."

Mrs. Ellis shuddered, and turned pale, as the man coolly discussed her
husband's injuries, and their probable fatal termination. Caddy, observing
her agitation, said, "Please, sir, don't talk of it; mother can't bear it."

The man looked at them compassionately for a few moments--then continued:
"You mustn't think me hard-hearted--I see so much of these things, that I
can't feel them as others do. This is a dreadful thing to you, no doubt,
but it's an every-day song to me--people are always coming here mangled in
all sorts of ways--so, you see, I've got used to it--in fact, I'd rather
miss 'em now if they didn't come. I've sat in this seat every day for
almost twenty years;" and he looked on the girls and their mother as he
gave them this piece of information as if he thought they ought to regard
him henceforth with great reverence.

Not finding them disposed to converse, the doorkeeper resumed the newspaper
he was reading when they entered, and was soon deeply engrossed in a
horrible steam-boat accident.

The sound of wheels in the courtyard attracting his attention, he looked
up, and remarked: "Here's the doctor--as soon as he has walked the wards
you'll be admitted."

Mrs. Ellis and her daughters turned round as the door opened, and, to their
great joy, recognized Doctor Burdett.

"How d'ye do?" said he, extending his hand to Mrs. Ellis--"what's the
matter? Crying!" he continued, looking at their tearful faces; "what has
happened?"

"Oh, doctor," said Esther, "father's lying here, very much injured; and
they think he'll die," said she, giving way to a fresh burst of grief.

"Very much injured--die--how is this?--I knew nothing of it--I haven't been
here before this week."

Esther hereupon briefly related the misfortunes that had befallen her
father.

"Dear me--dear me," repeated the kind old doctor.

"There, my dear; don't fret--he'll get better, my child--I'll take him in
hand at once. My dear Mrs. Ellis, weeping won't do the least good, and only
make you sick yourself. Stop, do now--I'll go and see him immediately, and
as soon as possible you shall be admitted."

They had not long to wait before a message came from Doctor Burdett,
informing them that they could now be permitted to see the sufferer.

"You must control yourselves," said the doctor to the sobbing women, as he
met them at the door; "you mustn't do anything to agitate him--his
situation is extremely critical."

The girls and their mother followed him to the bedside of Mr. Ellis, who,
ghastly pale, lay before them, apparently unconscious.

Mrs. Ellis gave but one look at her husband, and, with a faint cry, sank
fainting upon the floor. The noise partially aroused him; he turned his
head, and, after an apparent effort, recognized his daughters standing
beside him: he made a feeble attempt to raise his mutilated hands, and
murmured faintly, "You've come at last!" then closing his eyes, he dropped
his arms, as if exhausted by the effort.

Esther knelt beside him, and pressed a kiss on his pale face.
"Father!--father!" said she, softly. He opened his eyes again, and a smile
of pleasure broke over his wan face, and lighted up his eyes, as he feebly
said, "God bless you, darlings! I thought you'd never come. Where's mother
and Caddy?"

"Here," answered Esther, "here, by me; your looks frightened her so, that
she's fainted." Doctor Burdett here interposed, and said: "You must all
go now; he's too weak to bear more at present."

"Let me stay with him a little longer," pleaded Esther.

"No, my child, it's impossible," he continued; "besides, your mother will
need your attention;" and, whilst he spoke, he led her into an adjoining
room, where the others had preceded her.



CHAPTER XXIV.

Charlie Distinguishes Himself.


Charlie had now been many weeks under the hospitable roof of Mrs. Bird,
improving in health and appearance. Indeed, it would have been a wonder if
he had not, as the kind mistress of the mansion seemed to do nought else,
from day to day, but study plans for his comfort and pleasure. There was
one sad drawback upon the contentment of the dear old lady, and that was
her inability to procure Charlie's admission to the academy.

One morning Mr. Whately called upon her, and, throwing himself into a
chair, exclaimed: "It's all to no purpose; their laws are as unalterable as
those of the Medes and Persians--arguments and entreaty are equally thrown
away upon them; I've been closeted at least half a dozen times with each
director; and as all I can say won't make your _protege_ a shade whiter,
I'm afraid his admission to the academy must be given up."

"It's too bad," rejoined Mrs. Bird. "And who, may I ask, were the principal
opposers?"

"They all opposed it, except Mr. Weeks and Mr. Bentham."

"Indeed!--why they are the very ones that I anticipated would go against it
tooth and nail. And Mr. Glentworth--surely he was on our side?"

"He!--why, my dear madam, he was the most rabid of the lot. With his
sanctified face and canting tongue!"

"I'm almost ashamed to own it--but it's the truth, and I shouldn't hesitate
to tell it--I found the most pious of the directors the least accessible;
as to old Glentworth, he actually talked to me as if I was recommending the
committal of some horrid sin. I'm afraid I shall be set down by him as a
rabid Abolitionist, I got so warm on the subject. I've cherished as strong
prejudices against <DW52> people as any one; but I tell you, seeing how
contemptible it makes others appear, has gone a great way towards
eradicating it in me. I found myself obliged to use the same arguments
against it that are used by the Abolitionists, and in endeavouring to
convince others of the absurdity of their prejudices, I convinced myself."

"I'd set my heart upon it," said Mrs. Bird, in a tone of regret; "but I
suppose I'll have to give it up. Charlie don't know I've made application
for his admission, and has been asking me to let him go. A great many of
the boys who attend there have become acquainted with him, and it was only
yesterday that Mr. Glentworth's sons were teasing me to consent to his
beginning there the next term. The boys," concluded she, "have better
hearts than their parents."

"Oh, I begin to believe it's all sham, this prejudice; I'm getting quite
disgusted with myself for having had it--or rather thinking I had it. As
for saying it is innate, or that there is any natural antipathy to that
class, it's all perfect folly; children are not born with it, or why
shouldn't they shrink from a black nurse or playmate? It's all bosh,"
concluded he, indignantly, as he brought his cane down with a rap.

"Charlie's been quite a means of grace to you," laughingly rejoined Mrs.
Bird, amused at his vehemence of manner. "Well, I'm going to send him to
Sabbath-school next Sunday; and, if there is a rebellion against his
admission there, I shall be quite in despair."

It is frequently the case, that we are urged by circumstances to the
advocacy of a measure in which we take but little interest, and of the
propriety of which we are often very sceptical; but so surely as it is just
in itself, in our endeavours to convert others we convince ourselves; and,
from lukewarm apologists, we become earnest advocates. This was just Mr.
Whately's case: he had begun to canvass for the admission of Charlie with
a doubtful sense of its propriety, and in attempting to overcome the
groundless prejudices of others, he was convicted of his own.

Happily, in his case, conviction was followed by conversion, and as he
walked home from Mrs. Bird's, he made up his mind that, if they attempted
to exclude Charlie from the Sabbath-school, he would give them a piece of
his mind, and then resign his superintendency of it.

On arriving at home, he found waiting for him a young lady, who was
formerly a member of his class in the Sabbath-school. "I've come," said
she, "to consult you about forming an adult class in our school for
<DW52> persons. We have a girl living with us, who would be very glad to
attend, and she knows two or three others. I'll willingly take the class
myself. I've consulted the pastor and several others, and no one seems to
anticipate any objections from the scholars, if we keep them on a separate
bench, and do not mix them up with the white children."

"I'm delighted to hear you propose it," answered Mr. Whately, quite
overjoyed at the opening it presented, "the plan meets my warmest approval.
I decidedly agree with you in the propriety of our making some effort for
the elevation and instruction of this hitherto neglected class--any aid I
can render----"

"You astonish me," interrupted Miss Cass, "though I must say very
agreeably. You were the last person from whom I thought of obtaining any
countenance. I did not come to you until armed with the consent of almost
all the parties interested, because from you I anticipated considerable
opposition," and in her delight, the young girl grasped Mr. Whately's hand,
and shook it very heartily.

"Oh, my opinions relative to <DW52> people have lately undergone
considerable modification; in fact," said he, with some little confusion,
"quite a thorough revolution. I don't, think we have quite done our duty by
these people. Well, well, we must make the future atone for the past."

Miss Cass had entered upon her project with all the enthusiasm of youth,
and being anxious that her class, "in point of numbers," should make a
presentable appearance, had drafted into it no less a person than Aunt
Comfort.

Aunt Comfort was a personage of great importance in the little village of
Warmouth, and one whose services were called into requisition on almost
every great domestic occasion.

At births she frequently officiated, and few young mothers thought
themselves entirely safe if the black good-humoured face of Aunt Comfort
was not to be seen at their bedside. She had a hand in the compounding of
almost every bridecake, and had been known to often leave houses of
feasting, to prepare weary earth-worn travellers for their final place of
rest. Every one knew, and all liked her, and no one was more welcome at the
houses of the good people of Warmouth than Aunt Comfort.

But whilst rendering her all due praise for her domestic acquirements,
justice compels us to remark that Aunt Comfort was not a literary
character. She could get up a shirt to perfection, and made irreproachable
chowder, but she was not a woman of letters. In fact, she had arrived at
maturity at a time when <DW64>s and books seldom came in familiar contact;
and if the truth must be told, she cared very little about the latter. "But
jist to 'blege Miss Cass," she consented to attend her class, averring as
she did so, "that she didn't 'spect she was gwine to larn nothin' when she
got thar."

Miss Cass, however, was of the contrary opinion, and anticipated that after
a few Sabbaths, Aunt Comfort would prove to be quite a literary phenomenon.
The first time their class assembled the white children well-nigh
dislocated their necks, in their endeavours to catch glimpses of the
 scholars, who were seated on a backless bench, in an obscure
corner of the room.

Prominent amongst them shone Aunt Comfort, who in honour of this
extraordinary occasion, had retrimmed her cap, which was resplendent with
bows of red ribbon as large as peonies. She had a Sunday-school primer in
her hand, and was repeating the letters with the utmost regularity, as
Miss Cass pronounced them. They got on charmingly until after crossing over
the letter O, as a matter of course they came to P and Q.

"Look here," said Aunt Comfort, with a look of profound erudition, "here's
anoder O. What's de use of having two of 'em?"

"No, no, Aunt Comfort--that's Q--the letter Q."

"Umph," grunted the old woman, incredulously, "what's de use of saying
dat's a Q, when you jest said not a minute ago 'twas O?"

"This is not the same," rejoined the teacher, "don't you see the little
tail at the bottom of it?"

Aunt Comfort took off her silver spectacles, and gave the glasses of them a
furious rub, then after essaying another look, exclaimed, "What, you don't
mean dat 'ere little speck down at the bottom of it, does yer?"

"Yes, Aunt Comfort, that little speck, as you call it, makes all the
difference--it makes O into Q."

"Oh, go 'way, child," said she, indignantly, "you isn't gwine to fool me
dat ar way. I knows you of old, honey--you's up to dese 'ere things--you
know you allus was mighty 'chevious, and I isn't gwine to b'lieve dat dat
ar little speck makes all the difference--no such thing, case it
don't--deys either both O's or both Q's. I'm clar o' dat--deys either one
or tother."

Knowing by long experience the utter futility of attempting to convince
Aunt Comfort that she was in the wrong, by anything short of a miracle, the
teacher wisely skipped over the obnoxious letter, then all went smoothly on
to the conclusion of the alphabet.

The lesson having terminated, Miss Cass looked up and discovered standing
near her a <DW52> boy, who she correctly surmised was sent as an addition
to her class. "Come here, and sit down," said she, pointing to a seat next
Aunt Comfort. "What is your name?"

Charlie gave his name and residence, which were entered in due form on the
teacher's book. "Now, Charles," she continued, "do you know your letters?"

"Yes, ma'am," was the answer.

"Can you spell?" she inquired. To this also Charlie gave an affirmative,
highly amused at the same time at being asked such a question.

Miss Cass inquired no further into the extent of his acquirements, it never
having entered her head that he could do more than spell. So handing him
one of the primers, she pointed out a line on which to begin. The spirit of
mischief entered our little friend, and he stumbled through b-l-a
bla--b-l-i bli--b-l-o blo--b-l-u blu, with great gravity and slowness.

"You spell quite nicely, particularly for a little <DW52> boy," said Miss
Cass, encouragingly, as he concluded the line; "take this next," she
continued, pointing to another, "and when you have learned it, I will hear
you again."

It was the custom of the superintendent to question the scholars upon a
portion of Bible history, given out the Sabbath previous for study during
the week. It chanced that upon the day of which we write, the subject for
examination was one with which Charlie was quite familiar.

Accordingly, when the questions were put to the school, he answered boldly
and quickly to many of them, and with an accuracy that astonished his
fellow scholars.

"How did you learn the answers to those questions--you can't read?" said
Miss Cass.

"Yes, but I can read," answered Charlie, with a merry twinkle in his eye.

"Why didn't you tell me so before?" she asked.

"Because you didn't ask me," he replied, suppressing a grin.

This was true enough, so Miss Cass, having nothing farther to say, sat and
listened, whilst he answered the numerous and sometimes difficult questions
addressed to the scholars.

Not so, Aunt Comfort. She could not restrain her admiration of this display
of talent on the part of one of her despised race; she was continually
breaking out with expressions of wonder and applause. "Jis' hear
dat--massy on us--only jis' listen to de chile," said she, "talks jis' de
same as if he was white. Why, boy, where you learn all dat?"

"Across the Red Sea," cried Charlie, in answer to a question from the desk
of the superintendent.

"'Cross de Red Sea! Umph, chile, you been dere?" asked Aunt Comfort, with a
face full of wonder.

"What did you say?" asked Charlie, whose attention had been arrested by the
last question.

"Why I asked where you learned all dat 'bout de children of Israel."

"Oh, I learned that at Philadelphia," was his reply; "I learned it at
school with the rest of the boys."

"You did!" exclaimed she, raising her hands with astonishment. "Is dere
many more of 'em like you?"

Charlie did not hear this last question of Aunt Comfort's, therefore she
was rather startled by his replying in a loud tone, "_Immense hosts_."

"Did I ever--jis' hear dat, dere's ''mense hostes' of 'em jest like him!
only think of it. Is dey all dere yet, honey?"

"They were all drowned."

"Oh, Lordy, Lordy," rejoined she, aghast with horror; for Charlie's reply
to a question regarding the fate of Pharaoh's army, had been by her
interpreted as an answer to her question respecting his 
schoolmates at Philadelphia.

"And how did you 'scape, honey," continued she, "from drowning 'long wid
the rest of 'em?"

"Why I wasn't there, it was thousands of years ago."

"Look here. What do you mean?" she whispered; "didn't you say jest now dat
you went to school wid 'em?"

This was too much for Charlie, who shook all over with suppressed laughter;
nor was Miss Cass proof against the contagion--she was obliged to almost
suffocate herself with her handkerchief to avoid a serious explosion.

"Aunt Comfort, you are mistaking him," said she, as soon as she could
recover her composure; "he is answering the questions of the
superintendent--not yours, and very well he has answered them, too,"
continued she. "I like to see little boys aspiring: I am glad to see you so
intelligent--you must persevere, Charlie."

"Yes, you must, honey," chimed in Aunt Comfort. "I'se very much like Miss
Cass; I likes to see children--'specially children of colour--have
_expiring_ minds."

Charlie went quite off at this, and it was only by repeated hush--hushes,
from Miss Cass, and a pinch in the back from Aunt Comfort, that he was
restored to a proper sense of his position.

The questioning being now finished, Mr. Whately came to Charlie, praised
him highly for his aptness, and made some inquiries respecting his
knowledge of the catechism; also whether he would be willing to join the
class that was to be catechised in the church during the afternoon. To
this, Charlie readily assented, and, at the close of the school, was placed
at the foot of the class, preparatory to going into the Church.

The public catechizing of the scholars was always an event in the village;
but now a novelty was given it, by the addition of a black lamb to the
flock, and, as a matter of course, a much greater interest was manifested.
Had a lion entered the doors of St. Stephen's church, he might have created
greater consternation, but he could not have attracted more attention than
did our little friend on passing beneath its sacred portals. The length of
the aisle seemed interminable to him, and on his way to the altar he felt
oppressed by the scrutiny of eyes through which he was compelled to pass.
Mr. Dural, the pastor, looked kindly at him, as he stood in front of the
chancel, and Charlie took heart from his cheering smile.

Now, to Aunt Comfort (who was the only <DW52> person who regularly
attended the church) a seat had been assigned beside the organ; which
elevated position had been given her that the congregation might indulge in
their devotions without having their prejudices shocked by a too close
contemplation of her ebony countenance.

But Aunt Comfort, on this occasion, determined to get near enough to hear
all that passed, and, leaving her accustomed seat, she planted herself in
one of the aisles of the gallery overlooking the altar, where she remained
almost speechless with wonder and astonishment at the unprecedented sight
of a woolly head at the foot of the altar.

Charlie got on very successfully until called upon to repeat the Lord's
Prayer; and, strange to say, at this critical juncture, his memory forsook
him, and he was unable to utter a word of it: for the life of him he could
not think of anything but "Now I lay me down to sleep"--and confused and
annoyed he stood unable to proceed. At this stage of affairs, Aunt
Comfort's interest in Charlie's success had reached such a pitch that her
customary awe of the place she was in entirely departed, and she exclaimed,
"I'll give yer a start--'Our Farrer,'"--then overwhelmed by the
consciousness that she had spoken out in meeting, she sank down behind a
pew-door, completely extinguished. At this there was an audible titter,
that was immediately suppressed; after which, Charlie recovered his memory,
and, started by the opportune prompting of Aunt Comfort, he recited it
correctly. A few questions more terminated the examination, and the
children sat down in front of the altar until the conclusion of the
service.

Mrs. Bird, highly delighted with the _debut_ of her _protege_, bestowed no
end of praises upon him, and even made the coachman walk home, that Charlie
might have a seat in the carriage, as she alleged she was sure he must be
much fatigued and overcome with the excitement of the day; then taking the
reins into her own hands, she drove them safely home.



CHAPTER XXV.

The Heir.


We must now return to Philadelphia, and pay a visit to the office of Mr.
Balch. We shall find that gentleman in company with Mr. Walters: both look
anxious, and are poring over a letter which is outspread before them.

"It was like a thunder-clap to me," said Mr. Balch: "the idea of there
being another heir never entered my brain--I didn't even know he had a
living relative."

"When did you get the letter?" asked Walters.

"Only this morning, and I sent for you immediately! Let us read it
again--we'll make another attempt to decipher this incomprehensible name.
Confound the fellow! why couldn't he write so that some one besides himself
could read it! We must stumble through it," said he, as he again began the
letter as follows:--

"Dear Sir,--Immediately on receipt of your favour, I called upon Mr.
Thurston, to take the necessary steps for securing the property of your
late client. To my great surprise, I found that another claimant had
started up, and already taken the preliminary measures to entering upon
possession. This gentleman, Mr.----

"Now, what would you call that name, Walters?--to me it looks like
Stimmens, or Stunners, or something of the kind!"

"Never mind the name," exclaimed Walters--"skip that--let me hear the rest
of the letter; we shall find out who he is soon enough, in all conscience."

"Well, then," resumed Mr. Balch--"This gentleman, Mr.----, is a resident in
your city; and he will, no doubt, take an early opportunity of calling on
you, in reference to the matter. It is my opinion, that without a will in
their favour, these children cannot oppose his claim successfully, if he
can prove his consanguinity to Mr. Garie. His lawyer here showed me a copy
of the letters and papers which are to be used as evidence, and, I must
say, they _are entirely_ without flaw. He proves himself, undoubtedly, to
be the first cousin of Mr. Garie. You are, no doubt, aware that these
children being the offspring of a slave-woman, cannot inherit, in this
State (except under certain circumstances), the property of a white father.
I am, therefore, very much afraid that they are entirely at his mercy."

"Well, then," said Walters, when Mr. Balch finished reading the letter, "it
is clear there is an heir, and his claim _must_ be well sustained, if such
a man as Beckley, the first lawyer in the State, does not hesitate to
endorse it; and as all the property (with the exception of a few thousands
in my hands) lies in Georgia, I'm afraid the poor children will come off
badly, unless this new heir prove to be a man of generosity--at all events,
it seems we are completely at his mercy."

"We must hope for the best," rejoined Mr. Balch. "If he has any heart, he
certainly will make some provision for them. The disappearance of that will
is to me most unaccountable! I am confident it was at his house. It seemed
so singular that none of his papers should be missing, except that--there
were a great many others, deeds, mortgages, &c. scattered over the floor,
but no will!"

The gentlemen were thus conversing, when they heard a tap at the door.
"Come in!" cried Mr. Balch; and, in answer to the request, in walked Mr.
George Stevens.

Mr. Walters and Mr. Balch bowed very stiffly, and the latter inquired what
had procured him the honour of a visit.

"I have called upon you in reference to the property of the late Mr.
Garie." "Oh! you are acting in behalf of this new claimant, I suppose?"
rejoined Mr. Balch.

"Sir!" said Mr. Stevens, looking as though he did not thoroughly understand
him.

"I said," repeated Mr. Balch, "that I presumed you called in behalf of this
new-found heir to Mr. Garie's property."

Mr. Stevens looked at him for a moment, then drawing himself up, exclaimed,
"I AM THE HEIR!"

"You!--_you_ the heir!" cried both the gentlemen, almost simultaneously.

"Yes, I am the heir!" coolly repeated Mr. Stevens, with an assured look. "I
am the first cousin of Mr. Garie!"

"You his first cousin?--it is impossible!" said Walters.

"You'll discover it is not only possible, but true--I am, as I said, Mr.
Garie's first cousin!"

"If you are that, you are more," said Walters, fiercely--"you're his
murderer!" At this charge Mr. Stevens turned deathly pale. "Yes," continued
Walters; "you either murdered him, or instigated others to do so! It was
you who directed the rioters against both him and me--I have proof of what
I say and can produce it. Now your motive is clear as day--you wanted his
money, and destroyed him to obtain it! His blood is on your hands!" hissed
Walters through his clenched teeth.

In the excitement consequent upon such a charge, Mr. Stevens, unnoticed by
himself, had overturned a bottle of red ink, and its contents had slightly
stained his hands. When Walters charged him with having Mr. Garie's blood
upon them, he involuntarily looked down and saw his hands stained with red.
An expression of intense horror flitted over his face when he observed it;
but quickly regaining his composure, he replied, "It's only a little ink."

"Yes, I know _that_ is ink," rejoined Walters, scornfully; "look at him,
Balch," he continued, "he doesn't dare to look either of us in the face."

"It's false," exclaimed Stevens, with an effort to appear courageous;
"it's as false as hell, and any man that charges me with it is a liar."

The words had scarcely passed his lips, when Walters sprang upon him with
the ferocity of a tiger, and seizing him by the throat, shook and whirled
him about as though he were a plaything.

"Stop, stop! Walters," cried Mr. Balch, endeavouring to loose his hold upon
the throat of Mr. Stevens, who was already purple in the face; "let him go,
this violence can benefit neither party. Loose your hold." At this
remonstrance, Walters dashed Stevens from him into the farthest corner of
the room, exclaiming, "Now, go and prosecute me if you dare, and I'll tell
for what I chastised you; prosecute me for an assault, if you think you can
risk the consequences."

Mr. Balch assisted him from the floor and placed him in a chair, where he
sat holding his side, and panting for breath. When he was able to speak, he
exclaimed, with a look of concentrated malignity, "Remember, we'll be even
some day; I never received a blow and forgot it afterwards, bear that in
mind."

"This will never do, gentlemen," said Mr. Balch, soothingly: "this conduct
is unworthy of you. You are unreasonable both of you. When you have cooled
down we will discuss the matter as we should."

"You'll discuss it alone then," said Stevens, rising, and walking to the
door: "and when you have any further communication to make, you must come
to me."

"Stop, stop, don't go," cried Mr. Balch, following him out at the door,
which they closed behind them; "don't go away in a passion, Mr. Stevens.
You and Walters are both too hasty. Come in here and sit down," said he,
opening the door of a small adjoining room, "wait here one moment, I'll
come back to you."

"This will never do, Walters," said he, as he re-entered his office; "the
fellow has the upper hand of us, and we must humour him; we should suppress
our own feelings for the children's sake. You are as well aware as I am of
the necessity of some compromise--we are in his power for the present, and
must act as circumstances compel us to."

"I can't discuss the matter with him," interrupted Walters, "he's an
unmitigated scoundrel. I couldn't command my temper in his presence for
five minutes. If you can arrange anything with him at all advantageous to
the children, I shall be satisfied, it will be more than I expect; only
bear in mind, that what I have in my hands belonging to Garie we must
retain, he knows nothing of that."

"Very well," rejoined Mr. Balch, "depend upon it I'll do my best;" and
closing the door, he went back to Mr. Stevens.

"Now, Mr. Stevens," said he, drawing up a chair, "we will talk over this
matter dispassionately, and try and arrive at some amicable arrangement: be
kind enough to inform me what your claims are."

"Mr. Balch, _you_ are a gentleman," began Mr. Stevens, "and therefore I'm
willing to discuss the matter thoroughly with you. You'll find me disposed
to do a great deal for these children: but I wish it distinctly understood
at the beginning, that whatever I may give them, I bestow as a favour. I
concede nothing to them as a right, legally they have not the slightest
claim upon me; of that you, who are an excellent lawyer, must be well
aware."

"We won't discuss that point at present, Mr. Stevens. I believe you
intimated you would be kind enough to say upon what evidence you purposed
sustaining your claims?"

"Well, to come to the point, then," said Stevens; "the deceased Mr. Garie
was, as I before said, my first cousin. His father and my mother were
brother and sister. My mother married in opposition to her parents'
desires; they cut her off from the family, and for years there was no
communication between them. At my father's death, my mother made overtures
for a reconciliation, which were contemptuously rejected, at length she
died. I was brought up in ignorance of who my grandparents were; and only a
few months since, on the death of my father's sister, did I make the
discovery. Here," said he, extending the packet of letters which, the
reader will remember once agitated, him so strangely, "here are the letters
that passed between my mother and her father."

Mr. Balch took up one and read:--


"_Savannah_, 18--

"MADAM,--Permit me to return this letter (wherein you
declare yourself the loving and repentant daughter of Bernard
Garie) and at the same time inform you, that by your own.
acts you have deprived yourself of all claim to that relation.
In opposition to my wishes, and in open defiance of my
express commands, you chose to unite your fortune
with one in every respect your inferior. If that union has
not resulted as happily as you expected, you must sustain
yourself by the reflection that you are the author of your own
misfortunes and alone to blame for your present miserable
condition.--Respectfully yours,

"BERNARD GARIE."


Mr. Balch read, one after another, letters of a similar purport--in fact, a
long correspondence between Bernard Garie and the mother of Mr. Stevens.
When he had finished, the latter remarked, "In addition to those, I can
produce my mother's certificate of baptism, her marriage certificate, and
every necessary proof of my being her son. If that does not suffice to make
a strong case, I am at a loss to imagine what will."

Mr. Balch pondered a few moments, and then inquired, looking steadily at
Mr. Stevens, "How long have you known of this relationship?"

"Oh, I've known it these three years."

"Three years! why, my dear sir, only a few moments ago you said a few
months."

"Oh, did I?" said Mr. Stevens, very much confused; "I meant, or should have
said, three years."

"Then, of course you were aware that Mr. Garie was your cousin when he
took the house beside you?"

"Oh, yes--that is--yes--yes; I _was_ aware of it."

"And did you make any overtures of a social character?" asked Mr. Balch.

"Well, yes--that is to say, my wife did."

"_Where were you the night of the murder?_"

Mr. Stevens turned pale at this question, and replied, hesitatingly, "Why,
at home, of course."

"You were at home, and saw the house of your cousins assaulted, and made no
effort to succour them or their children. The next morning you are one of
the coroner's inquest, and hurry through the proceedings, never once saying
a word of your relationship to them, nor yet making any inquiry respecting
the fate of the children. _It is very singular_."

"I don't see what this cross-questioning is to amount to; it has nothing to
do with my claim as heir."

"We are coming to that," rejoined Mr. Balch. "This, as I said, is very
singular; and when I couple it with some other circumstances that have come
to my knowledge, it is more than singular--_it is suspicious_. Here are a
number of houses assaulted by a mob. Two or three days before the assault
takes place, a list in your handwriting, and which is headed, '_Places to
be attacked_,' is found, under circumstances that leave no doubt that it
came directly from you. Well, the same mob that attacks these
places--_marked out by you_--traverse a long distance to reach the house of
your next-door neighbour. They break into it, and kill him; and you, who
are aware at the time that he is your own cousin, do not attempt to
interpose to prevent it, although it can be proved that you were
all-powerful with the marauders. No! you allow him to be destroyed without
an effort to save him, and immediately claim his property. Now, Mr.
Stevens, people disposed to be suspicions--seeing how much you were to be
the gainer by his removal, and knowing you had some connection with this
mob--might not scruple to say that _you_ instigated the attack by which he
lost his life; and I put it to you--now don't you think that, if it was any
one else, you would say that the thing looked suspicious?"

Mr. Stevens winced at this, but made no effort to reply.

Mr. Balch continued, "What I was going to remark is simply this. As we are
in possession of these facts, and able to prove them by competent
witnesses, we should not be willing to remain perfectly silent respecting
it, unless you made what _we_ regarded as a suitable provision for the
children."

"I'm willing, as I said before, to do something; but don't flatter yourself
I'll do any more than I originally intended from any fear of disclosures
from you. I'm not to be frightened," said Mr. Stevens.

"I'm not at all disposed to attempt to frighten you: however, you know how
far a mere statement of these facts would go towards rendering your
position in society more agreeable. A person who has been arrested on
suspicion of murder is apt to be shunned and distrusted. It can't be
helped; people are so very squeamish--they _will_ draw back, you know,
under such circumstances."

"I don't see how such a suspicion can attach itself to me," rejoined
Stevens, sharply.

"Oh, well, we won't discuss that any further: let me hear what you will do
for the children."

Mr. Balch saw, from the nervous and embarrassed manner of Mr. Stevens, that
the indirect threat of exposing him had had considerable effect; and his
downcast looks and agitation rather strengthened in his mind the suspicions
that had been excited by the disclosures of Mr. Walters.

After a few moments' silence, Mr. Stevens said, "I'll settle three thousand
dollars on each of the children. Now I think that is treating them
liberally."

"Liberally!" exclaimed Balch, in a tone of contempt--"liberally! You
acquire by the death of their father property worth one hundred and fifty
thousand dollars, and you offer these children, who are the rightful heirs,
three thousand dollars! That, sir, won't suffice." "I think it should,
then," rejoined Stevens. "By the laws of Georgia these children, instead of
being his heirs, are my slaves. Their mother was a slave before them, and
they were born slaves; and if they were in Savannah, I could sell them both
to-morrow. On the whole, I think I've made you a very fair offer, and I'd
advise you to think of it."

"No, Mr. Stevens; I shall accept no such paltry sum. If you wish a quick
and peaceful possession of what you are pleased to regard as your rights,
you must tender something more advantageous, or I shall feel compelled to
bring this thing into court, even at the risk of loss; and there, you know,
we should be obliged to make a clear statement of _everything_ connected
with this business. It might be advantageous to _us_ to bring the thing
fully before the court and public--but I'm exceedingly doubtful whether it
would advance _your_ interest."

Stevens winced at this, and asked, "What would you consider a fair offer?"

"I should consider _all_ a just offer, half a fair one, and a quarter as
little as you could have the conscience to expect us to take."

"I don't see any use in this chaffering, Mr. Balch," said Stephens; "you
can't expect me to give you any such sums as you propose. Name a sum that
you can reasonably expect to get."

"Well," said Mr. Balch, rising, "you must give us fifteen thousand dollars,
and you should think yourself well off then. We could commence a suit, and
put you to nearly that expense to defend it; to say nothing of the
notoriety that the circumstance would occasion you. Both Walters and I are
willing to spend both money and time in defence of these children's rights;
I assure you they are not friendless."

"I'll give twelve thousand, and not a cent more, if I'm hung for it," said
Mr. Stevens, almost involuntarily.

"Who spoke of hanging?" asked Mr. Balch.

"Oh!" rejoined Stevens, "that is only my emphatic way of speaking." "Of
course, you meant figuratively," said Mr. Balch, in a tone of irony;
mentally adding, "as I hope you may be one day literally."

Mr. Stevens looked flushed and angry, but Mr. Balch continued, without
appearing to notice him, and said: "I'll speak to Walters. Should he
acquiesce in your proposal, I am willing to accept it; however, I cannot
definitely decide without consulting him. To-morrow I will inform you of
the result."



CHAPTER XXVI.

Home Again.


To Charlie the summer had been an exceedingly short one--time had flown so
pleasantly away. Everything that could be done to make the place agreeable
Mrs. Bird had effected. Amongst the number of her acquaintances who had
conceived a regard for her young _protege_ was a promising artist to whom
she had been a friend and patroness. Charlie paid him frequent visits, and
would sit hour after hour in his studio, watching the progress of his work.
Having nothing else at the time to amuse him, he one day asked the artist's
permission to try his hand at a sketch. Being supplied with the necessary
materials, he commenced a copy of a small drawing, and was working
assiduously, when the artist came and looked over his shoulder.

"Did you ever draw before?" he asked, with a start of surprise.

"Never," replied Charlie, "except on my slate at school. I sometimes used
to sketch the boys' faces."

"And you have never received any instructions?"

"Never--not even a hint," was the answer.

"And this is the first time you have attempted a sketch upon paper?"

"Yes; the very first."

"Then you are a little prodigy," said the artist, slapping him upon the
shoulder. "I must take you in hand. You have nothing else to do; come here
regularly every day, and I'll teach you. Will you come?"

"Certainly, if you wish it. But now, tell me, do you really think that
drawing good?" "Well, Charlie, if I had done it, it would be pronounced
very bad for me; but, coming from your hands, it's something astonishing."

"Really, now--you're not joking me?"

"No, Charlie, I'm in earnest--I assure you I am; it is drawn with great
spirit, and the boy that you have put in by the pump is exceedingly well
done."

This praise served as a great incentive to our little friend, who, day
after day thenceforth, was found at the studio busily engaged with his
crayons, and making rapid progress in his new art.

He had been thus occupied some weeks, and one morning was hurrying to the
breakfast-table, to get through his meal, that he might be early at the
studio, when he found Mrs. Bird in her accustomed seat looking very sad.

"Why, what is the matter?" he asked, on observing the unusually grave face
of his friend.

"Oh, Charlie, my dear! I've received very distressing intelligence from
Philadelphia. Your father is quite ill."

"My father ill!" cried he, with a look of alarm.

"Yes, my dear! quite sick--so says my letter. Here are two for you."

Charlie hastily broke the seal of one, and read as follows:--


"MY DEAR LITTLE BROTHER,--We are all in deep distress in
consequence of the misfortunes brought upon us by the mob.
Our home has been destroyed; and, worse than all, our poor
father was caught, and so severely beaten by the rioters that
for some days his life was entirely despaired of. Thank God!
he is now improving, and we have every reasonable hope of
his ultimate recovery. Mother, Caddy, and I, as you may
well suppose, are almost prostrated by this accumulation of
misfortunes, and but for the kindness of Mr. Walters, with
whom we are living, I do not know what would have become
of us. Dear Mr. and Mrs. Garie--[Here followed a passage
that was so scored and crossed as to be illegible. After a
short endeavour to decipher it, he continued:] We would
like to see you very much, and mother grows every day more
anxious for your return. I forgot to add, in connection with
the mob, that Mr. Walters's house was also attacked, but
unsuccessfully, the rioters having met a signal repulse.
Mother and Caddy send a world of love to you. So does
Kinch, who comes every day to see us and is, often extremely
useful. Give our united kind regards to Mrs. Bird, and thank
her in our behalf for her great kindness to you.--Ever yours,

"ESTHER.

"P.S.--Do try and manage to come home soon."


The tears trickled down Charlie's cheek as he perused the letter, which,
when he had finished reading, he handed to Mrs. Bird, and then commenced
the other. This proved to be from Kinch, who had spent all the spare time
at his disposal since the occurrence of the mob in preparing it.


"To MR. CHARLES ELLIS, ESQ., at MRS. BIRD'S.

"_Philadelphia_.

"DEAR SIR AND HONNORED FRIEND.--I take This chance To
Write To you To tell You that I am Well, And that we are
all well Except Your father, who Is sick; and I hope you are
Enjoying the same Blessin. We had An Awful fight, And I
was There, and I was One of The Captings. I had a sord
on; and the next Mornin we had a grate Brekfast. But
nobody Eat anything but me, And I was obliged to eat, Or
the Wittles would have spoiled. The Mob had Guns as Big as
Cannun; And they Shot them Off, and the holes Are in The
Shutter yet; And when You come Back, I will show them
to You. Your Father is very bad; And I Have gone back
to school, And I am Licked every day because I don't
Know my Lesson. A great big boy, with white woolly hair
and Pinkish Grey eyes, has got Your seat. I Put a Pin
under him one Day, And he told On me; and We Are to
Have a fight tomorrow. The boys Call Him 'Short and
Dirty,' because he ain't tall, and never washes His Face.
We Have got a new Teacher for the 5th Division. He's a
Scorcher, And believes in Rat Tan. I am to Wear My new
Cloths Next Sunday. Excuse This long letter. Your Friend
till death,

"KINCH SANDERS DE YOUNGE.

[Illustration: skull and cross bones]

"P.S. This it the best Skull and Cross-bones That
I can make. Come home soon, Yours &c.,

"K. S. DE YOUNGE, ESQ."


Charlie could not but smile through his tears, as he read this curious
epistle, which was not more remarkable for its graceful composition than
its wonderful chirography. Some of the lines were written in blue ink, some
in red, and others in that pale muddy black which is the peculiar colour of
ink after passing through the various experiments of school-boys, who
generally entertain the belief that all foreign substances, from
molasses-candy to bread-crumbs, necessarily improve the colour and quality
of that important liquid.

"Why every other word almost is commenced with a capital; and I declare
he's even made some in German text," cried Charlie, running his finger
mirthfully along the lines, until he came to "Your father is very bad."
Here the tears came welling up again--the shower had returned almost before
the sun had departed; and, hiding his face in his hands, he leant sobbing
on the table.

"Cheer up, Charlie!--cheer up, my little man! all may go well yet."

"Mrs. Bird," he sobbed, "you've been very kind to me; yet I want to go
home. I must see mother and father. You see what Esther writes,--they want
me to come home; do let me go."

"Of course you shall go, if you wish. Yet I should like you to remain with
me, if you will."

"No, no, Mrs. Bird, I mustn't stay; it wouldn't be right for me to remain
here, idle and enjoying myself, and they so poor and unhappy at home. I
couldn't stay," said he, rising from the table,--"I must go."

"Well, my dear, you can't go now. Sit down and finish your breakfast, or
you will have a head-ache."

"I'm not hungry--I can't eat," he replied; "my appetite has all gone." And
stealing away from the room, he went up into his chamber, threw himself on
the bed, and wept bitterly.

Mrs. Bird was greatly distressed at the idea of losing her little
favourite. He had been so much with her that she had become strongly
attached to him, and therefore looked forward to his departure with
unfeigned regret. But Charlie could not be persuaded to stay; and
reluctantly Mrs. Bird made arrangements for his journey home. Even the
servants looked a little sorry when they heard of his intended departure;
and Reuben the coachman actually presented him with a jack-knife as a token
of his regard.

Mrs. Bird accompanied him to the steamer, and placed him under the special
care of the captain; so that he was most comfortably provided for until his
arrival in New York, where he took the cars direct for home.

Not having written to inform them on what day he might be expected, he
anticipated giving them a joyful surprise, and, with this end in view,
hastened in the direction of Mr. Walters's. As he passed along, his eye was
attracted by a figure before him which he thought he recognized, and on
closer inspection it proved to be his sister Caddy.

Full of boyish fun, he crept up behind her, and clasped his hands over her
eyes, exclaiming, in an assumed voice, "Now, who am I?"

"Go away, you impudent, nasty thing!" cried Caddy, plunging violently.
Charlie loosed his hold; she turned, and beheld her brother.

"Oh! Charlie, Charlie! is it you? Why, bless you, you naughty fellow, how
you frightened me!" said she, throwing her arms round his neck, and kissing
him again and again. "When did you come? Oh, how delighted mother and Ess
will be!" "I only arrived about half an hour ago. How are mother and
father and Esther?"

"Mother and Ess are well, and father better. But I'm so glad to see you,"
she cried, with a fresh burst of tears and additional embraces.

"Why, Cad," said he, endeavouring to suppress some watery sensations of his
own, "I'm afraid you're not a bit pleased at my return--you're actually
crying about it."

"Oh, I'm so glad to see you that I can't help it," she replied, as she fell
to crying and kissing him more furiously than before.

Charlie became much confused at these repeated demonstrations of joyful
affection in the crowded street, and, gently disengaging her, remarked,
"See, Caddy, everybody is looking at us; let us walk on."

"I had almost forgot I was sent on an errand--however, it's not of much
consequence--I'll go home again with you;" and taking his hand, they
trudged on together.

"How did you say father was?" he asked again.

"Oh, he's better bodily; that is, he has some appetite, sits up every day,
and is gradually getting stronger; but he's all wrong here," said she,
tapping her forehead. "Sometimes he don't know any of us--and it makes us
all feel so bad." Here the tears came trickling down again, as she
continued: "Oh, Charlie! what those white devils will have to answer for!
When I think of how much injury they have done us, I _hate_ them! I know
it's wrong to hate anybody--but I can't help it; and I believe God hates
them as much as I do!"

Charlie looked gloomy; and, as he made no rejoinder, she continued, "We
didn't save a thing, not even a change of clothes; they broke and burnt up
everything; and then the way they beat poor father was horrible--horrible!
Just think--they chopped his fingers nearly all off, so that he has only
the stumps left. Charlie, Charlie!" she cried, wringing her hands, "it's
heart-rending to see him--he can't even feed himself, and he'll never be
able to work again!"

"Don't grieve, Cad," said Charlie, with an effort to suppress his own
tears; "I'm almost a man now," continued he, drawing himself up--"don't be
afraid, I'll take care of you all!"

Thus conversing, they reached Mr. Walters's. Caddy wanted Charlie to stop
and look at the damage effected by the mob upon the outside of the house,
but he was anxious to go in, and ran up the steps and gave the bell a very
sharp pull. The servant who opened the door was about to make some
exclamation of surprise, and was only restrained by a warning look from
Charlie. Hurrying past them, Caddy led the way to the room where her mother
and Esther were sitting. With a cry of joy Mrs. Ellis caught him in her
arms, and, before he was aware of their presence, he found himself half
smothered by her and Esther.

They had never been separated before his trip to Warmouth; and their
reunion, under such circumstances, was particularly affecting. None of them
could speak for a few moments, and Charlie clung round his mother's neck as
though he would never loose his hold. "Mother, mother!" was all he could
utter; yet in that word was comprised a world of joy and affection.

Esther soon came in for her share of caresses; then Charlie inquired,
"Where's father?"

"In here," said Mrs. Ellis, leading the way to an adjoining room. "I don't
think he will know you--perhaps he may."

In one corner of the apartment, propped up in a large easy chair by a
number of pillows, sat poor Mr. Ellis, gazing vacantly about the room and
muttering to himself. His hair had grown quite white, and his form was
emaciated in the extreme; there was a broad scar across his forehead, and
his dull, lustreless eyes were deeply sunken in his head. He took no notice
of them as they approached, but continued muttering and looking at his
hands.

Charlie was almost petrified at the change wrought in his father. A few
months before he had left him in the prime of healthful manhood; now he was
bent and spectrelike, and old in appearance as if the frosts of eighty
winters had suddenly fallen on him. Mrs. Ellis laid her hand gently upon
his shoulder, and said, "Husband, here's Charlie." He made no reply, but
continued muttering and examining his mutilated hands. "It's Charlie," she
repeated.

"Oh, ay! nice little boy!" he replied, vacantly; "whose son is he?"

Mrs. Ellis's voice quivered as she reiterated, "It's Charlie--our
Charlie!--don't you know him?"

"Oh, yes! nice little boy--nice little boy. Oh!" he continued, in a
suppressed and hurried tone, as a look of alarm crossed his face; "run home
quick, little boy! and tell your mother they're coming, thousands of them;
they've guns, and swords, and clubs. Hush! There they come--there they
come!" And he buried his face in the shawl, and trembled in an agony of
fright.

"Oh, mother, this is dreadful!" exclaimed Charlie. "Don't he know any of
you?"

"Yes; sometimes his mind comes back--very seldom, though--only for a very
little while. Come away: talking to him sometimes makes him worse." And
slowly and sorrowfully the two left the apartment.

That evening, after Mr. Ellis had been safely bestowed in bed, the family
gathered round the fire in the room of Mrs. Ellis, where Charlie
entertained them with a description of Warmouth and of the manner in which
he had passed the time whilst there. He was enthusiastic respecting Mrs.
Bird and her kindness. "Mother, she is such a _dear_ old lady: if I'd been
as white as snow, and her own son, she couldn't have been kinder to me. She
didn't want me to come away, and cried ever so much. Let me show you what
she gave me!" Charlie thrust his hand into his pocket, and drew out a small
wallet, from which he counted out four ten-dollar bills, two fives, and a
two dollar and a half gold piece, "Ain't I rich!" said he, as, with the air
of a millionaire, he tossed the money upon a table. "Now," he continued,
"do you know what I'm about to do?" Not receiving any answer from his
wondering sisters or mother, he added, "Why, just this!--here, mother,
this is yours," said he, placing the four ten-dollar bills before her; "and
here are five apiece for Esther and Cad; the balance is for your humble
servant. Now, then," he concluded, "what do you think of that?"

Mrs. Ellis looked fondly at him, and, stroking his head, told him that he
was a good son; and Esther and Caddy declared him to be the best brother in
town.

"Now, girls," said he, with the air of a patriarch, "what do you intend to
do with your money?"

"Mine will go towards buying me a dress, and Esther will save hers for a
particular purpose," said Caddy. "I'll tell you something about her and Mr.
Walters," continued she, with a mischievous look at her sister.

"Oh, Caddy--don't! Ain't you ashamed to plague me so?" asked Esther,
blushing to the roots of her hair. "Mother, pray stop her," cried she,
pleadingly.

"Hush, Caddy!" interposed her mother, authoritatively; "you shall do no
such thing."

"Well," resumed Caddy, "mother says I mustn't tell; but I can say this
much----"

Esther here put her hand over her sister's mouth and effectually prevented
any communication she was disposed to make.

"Never mind her, Ess!" cried Charlie; "you'll tell me all in good time,
especially if it's anything worth knowing."

Esther made no reply, but, releasing her sister, hurried out of the room,
and went upstairs to Charlie's chamber, where he found her on retiring for
the night.

"I'm glad you're here, Ess," said he, "you'll indulge me. Here is the
key--open my trunk and get me out a nightcap; I'm too tired, or too lazy,
to get it for myself." Esther stooped down, opened the trunk, and commenced
searching for the article of head-gear in question. "Come, Ess," said
Charles, coaxingly, "tell me what this is about you and Mr. Walters."

She made no reply at first, but fumbled about in the bottom of the trunk,
professedly in search of the nightcap which she at that moment held in her
hand. "Can't you tell me?" he again asked.

"Oh, there's nothing to tell, Charlie!" she answered.

"There must be something, Ess, or you wouldn't have blushed up so when Cad
was about to speak of it. Do," said he, approaching her, and putting his
arm round her neck--"do tell me all about it--I am sure there is some
secret!"

"Oh, no, Charlie--there is no secret; it's only this----" Here she stopped,
and, blushing, turned her head away.

"Ess, this is nonsense," said Charlie, impatiently: "if it's anything worth
knowing, why can't you tell a fellow? Come," said he, kissing her, "tell
me, now, like a dear old Ess as you are."

"Well, Charlie," said she, jerking the words out with an effort, "Mr.--Mr.
Walters has asked me to marry him!"

"Phew--gemini! that is news!" exclaimed Charlie. "And are you going to
accept him Ess?"

"I don't know," she answered.

"Don't know!" repeated Charlie, in a tone of surprise. "Why, Ess, I'm
astonished at you--such a capital fellow as he is! Half the girls of our
acquaintance would give an eye for the chance."

"But he is so rich!" responded Esther.

"Well, now, that's a great objection, ain't it! I should say, all the
better on that account," rejoined Charlie.

"The money is the great stumbling-block," continued she; "everybody would
say I married him for that."

"Then _everybody_ would lie, _as_ everybody very often does! If I was you,
Ess, and loved him, I shouldn't let his fortune stand in the way. I wish,"
continued he, pulling up his shirt-collar, "that some amiable young girl
with a fortune of a hundred thousand dollars, would make me an offer--I'd
like to catch myself refusing her!"

The idea of a youth of his tender years marrying any one, seemed so
ludicrous to Esther, that she burst into a hearty fit of laughter, to the
great chagrin of our hero, who seemed decidedly of the opinion that his
sister had not a proper appreciation of his years and inches.

"Don't laugh, Ess; but tell me--do you really intend to refuse him?"

"I can't decide yet, Charlie," answered she seriously; "if we were situated
as we were before--were not such absolute paupers--I wouldn't hesitate to
accept him; but to bring a family of comparative beggars upon him--I can't
make up my mind to do that."

Charlie looked grave as Esther made this last objection; boy as he was, he
felt its weight and justice. "Well, Ess," rejoined he, "I don't know what
to say about it--of course I can't advise. What does mother say?"

"She leaves it entirely to me," she answered. "She says I must act just as
I feel is right."

"I certainly wouldn't have him at all, Ess, if I didn't love him; and if I
did, I shouldn't let the money stand in the way--so, good night!"

Charlie slept very late the next morning, and was scarcely dressed when
Esther knocked at his door, with the cheerful tidings that her father had a
lucid interval and was waiting to see him.

Dressing himself hastily, he followed her into their father's room. When he
entered, the feeble sufferer stretched out his mutilated arms towards him
and clasped him round the neck, "They tell me," said he, "that you came
yesterday, and that I didn't recognize you. I thought, when I awoke this
morning, that I had a dim recollection of having seen some dear face; but
my head aches so, that I often forget--yes, often forget. My boy," he
continued, "you are all your mother and sisters have to depend upon now;
I'm--I'm----" here his voice faltered, as he elevated his stumps of
hands--"I'm helpless; but you must take care of them. I'm an old man now,"
said he despondingly.

"I will, father; I'll try _so_ hard" replied Charlie.

"It was cruel in them, wasn't it, son," he resumed. "See, they've made me
helpless for ever!" Charlie restrained the tears that were forcing
themselves up, and rejoined, "Never fear, father! I'll do my best; I trust
I shall soon be able to take care of you."

His father did not understand him--his mind was gone again, and he was
staring vacantly about him. Charlie endeavoured to recall his attention,
but failed, for he began muttering about the mob and his hands; they were
compelled to quit the room, and leave him to himself, as he always became
quiet sooner by being left alone.



CHAPTER XXVII.

Sudbury.


We must now admit our readers to a consultation that is progressing between
Mr. Balch and Mr. Walters, respecting the future of the two Garie children.
They no doubt entered upon the conference with the warmest and most earnest
desire of promoting the children's happiness; but, unfortunately, their
decision failed to produce the wished-for result.

"I scarcely thought you would have succeeded so well with him," said
Walters, "he is such an inveterate scoundrel; depend upon it nothing but
the fear of the exposure resulting from a legal investigation would ever
have induced that scamp to let twelve thousand dollars escape from his
clutches. I am glad you have secured that much; when we add it to the eight
thousand already in my possession it will place them in very comfortable
circumstances, even if they never get any more."

"I think we have done very well," rejoined Mr. Balch; "we were as much in
his power as he was in ours--not in the same way, however; a legal
investigation, no matter how damaging it might have been to his reputation,
would not have placed us in possession of the property, or invalidated his
claim as heir. I think, on the whole, we may as well be satisfied, and
trust in Providence for the future. So now, then, we will resume our
discussion of that matter we had under consideration the other day. I
cannot but think that my plan is best adapted to secure the boy's
happiness."

"I'm sorry I cannot agree with you, Mr. Balch. I have tried to view your
plan in the most favourable light, yet I cannot rid myself of a
presentiment that it will result in the ultimate discovery of his peculiar
position, and that most probably at some time when his happiness is
dependent upon its concealment. An undetected forger, who is in constant
fear of being apprehended, is happy in comparison with that <DW52> man
who attempts, in this country, to hold a place in the society of whites by
concealing his origin. He must live in constant fear of exposure; this
dread will embitter every enjoyment, and make him the most miserable of
men."

"You must admit," rejoined Mr. Balch, "that I have their welfare at heart.
I have thought the matter over and over, and cannot, for the life of me,
feel the weight of your objections. The children are peculiarly situated;
everything seems to favour my views. Their mother (the only relative they
had whose African origin was distinguishable) is dead, and both of them are
so exceedingly fair that it would never enter the brain of any one that
they were connected with <DW52> people by ties of blood. Clarence is old
enough to know the importance of concealing the fact, and Emily might be
kept with us until her prudence also might be relied upon. You must
acknowledge that as white persons they will be better off."

"I admit," answered Mr. Walters, "that in our land of liberty it is of
incalculable advantage to be white; that is beyond dispute, and no one is
more painfully aware of it than I. Often I have heard men of colour say
they would not be white if they could--had no desire to change their
complexions; I've written some down fools; others, liars. Why," continued
he, with a sneering expression of countenance, "it is everything to be
white; one feels that at every turn in our boasted free country, where all
men are upon an equality. When I look around me, and see what I have made
myself in spite of circumstances, and think what I might have been with the
same heart and brain beneath a fairer skin, I am almost tempted to curse
the destiny that made me what I am. Time after time, when scraping,
toiling, saving, I have asked myself. To what purpose is it all?--perhaps
that in the future white men may point at and call me, sneeringly, 'a
<DW65> millionaire,' or condescend to borrow money of me. Ah! often, when
some <DW64>-hating white man has been forced to ask a loan at my hands, I've
thought of Shylock and his pound of flesh, and ceased to wonder at him.
There's no doubt, my dear sir, but what I fully appreciate the advantage of
being white. Yet, with all I have endured, and yet endure from day to day,
I esteem myself happy in comparison with that man, who, mingling in the
society of whites, is at the same time aware that he has African blood in
his veins, and is liable at any moment to be ignominiously hurled from his
position by the discovery of his origin. He is never safe. I have known
instances where parties have gone on for years and years undetected; but
some untoward circumstance brings them out at last, and down they fall for
ever."

"Walters, my dear fellow, you will persist in looking upon his being
discovered as a thing of course: I see no reason for the anticipation of
any such result. I don't see how he is to be detected--it may never occur.
And do you feel justified in consigning them to a position which you know
by painful experience to be one of the most disagreeable that can be
endured. Ought we not to aid their escape from it if we can?"

Mr. Walters stood reflectively for some moments, and then exclaimed, "I'll
make no farther objection; I would not have the boy say to me hereafter,
'But for your persisting in identifying me with a degraded people, I might
have been better and happier than I am.' However, I cannot but feel that
concealments of this kind are productive of more misery than comfort."

"We will agree to differ about that, Walters; and now, having your consent,
I shall not hesitate to proceed in the matter, with full reliance that the
future will amply justify my choice."

"Well, well! as I said before, I will offer no further objection. Now let
me hear the details of your plan."

"I have written," answered Mr. Balch, "to Mr. Eustis, a friend of mine
living at Sudbury, where there is a large preparatory school for boys. At
his house I purpose placing Clarence. Mr. Eustis is a most discreet man,
and a person of liberal sentiments. I feel that I can confide everything to
him without the least fear of his ever divulging a breath of it. He is a
gentleman in the fullest sense of the term, and at his house the boy will
have the advantage of good society, and will associate with the best people
of the place."

"Has he a family?" asked Mr. Walters.

"He is a widower," answered Mr. Balch; "a maiden sister of his wife's
presides over his establishment; she will be kind to Clarence, I am
confident; she has a motherly soft heart, and is remarkably fond of
children. I have not the least doubt but that he will be very happy and
comfortable there. I think it very fortunate, Walters," he continued, "that
he has so few  acquaintances--no boyish intimacies to break up; and
it will be as well to send him away before he has an opportunity of forming
them. Besides, being here, where everything will be so constantly reviving
the remembrance of his recent loss, he may grow melancholy and stupid. I
have several times noticed his reserve, so unusual in a child. His dreadful
loss and the horrors that attended it have made, a deep
impression--stupified him, to a certain extent, I think. Well, well! we
will get him off, and once away at school, and surrounded by lively boys,
this dulness will soon wear off."

The gentlemen having fully determined upon his being sent, it was proposed
to bring him in immediately and talk to him relative to it. He was
accordingly sent for, and came into the room, placing himself beside the
chair of Mr. Walters.

Clarence had altered very much since the death of his parents. His face had
grown thin and pale, and he was much taller than when he came to
Philadelphia: a shade of melancholy had overspread his face; there was now
in his eyes that expression of intense sadness that characterized his
mother's. "You sent for me?" he remarked, inquiringly, to Mr. Walters.

"Yes, my boy," he rejoined, "we sent for you to have a little talk about
school. Would you like to go to school again?"

"Oh, yes!" answered Clarence, his face lighting up with pleasure; "I should
like it of all things; it would be much better than staying at home all
day, doing nothing; the days are so long," concluded he, with a sigh.

"Ah! we will soon remedy that," rejoined Mr. Balch, "when you go to
Sudbury."

"Sudbury!" repeated Clarence, with surprise; "where is that? I thought you
meant, to go to school here."

"Oh, no, my dear," said Mr. Balch, "I don't know of any good school here,
such as you would like; we wish to send you to a place where you will enjoy
yourself finely,--where you will have a number of boys for companions in
your studies and pleasures."

"And is Em going with me?" he asked.

"Oh, no, that is not possible; it is a school for boys exclusively; you
can't take your sister there," rejoined Mr. Walters.

"Then I don't want to go," said Clarence, decidedly; "I don't want to go
where I can't take Em with me."

Mr. Balch exchanged glances with Mr. Walters, and looked quite perplexed at
this new opposition to his scheme. Nothing daunted, however, by this
difficulty, he, by dint of much talking and persuasion, brought Clarence to
look upon the plan with favour, and to consent reluctantly to go without
his sister.

But the most delicate part of the whole business was yet to come--they must
impress upon the child the necessity of concealing the fact that he was of
African origin. Neither seemed to know how to approach the subject.
Clarence, however, involuntarily made an opening for them by inquiring if
Emily was to go to Miss Jordan's school again.

"No, my dear," answered Mr. Balch, "Miss Jordan won't permit her to attend
school there."

"Why?" asked Clarence.

"Because she is a  child," rejoined Mr. Balch. "Now, Clarence,"
he continued, "you are old enough, I presume, to know the difference that
exists between the privileges and advantages enjoyed by the whites, and
those that are at the command of the <DW52> people. White boys can go to
better schools, and they can enter college and become professional men,
lawyers, doctors, &c, or they may be merchants--in fact, they can be
anything they please. <DW52> people can enjoy none of these advantages;
they are shut out from them entirely. Now which of the two would you rather
be-- or white?"

"I should much rather be white, of course," answered Clarence; "but I am
, and can't help myself," said he, innocently.

"But, my child, we are going to send you where it is not known that you are
; and you must _never, never_ tell it, because if it became known,
you would be expelled from the school, as you were from Miss Jordan's."

"I didn't know we were expelled," rejoined Clarence. "I know she sent us
home, but I could not understand what it was for. I'm afraid they will send
me from the other school. Won't they know I am ?"

"No, my child, I don't think they will discover it unless you should be
foolish enough to tell it yourself, in which case both Mr. Walters and
myself would be very much grieved."

"But suppose some one should ask me," suggested Clarence.

"No one will ever ask you such a question," said Mr. Balch, impatiently;
"all you have to do is to be silent yourself on the subject. Should any of
your schoolmates ever make inquiries respecting your parents, all you have
to answer is, they were from Georgia, and you are an orphan."

Clarence's eyes began to moisten as Mr. Balch spoke of his parents, and
after a few moments he asked, with some hesitation, "Am I never to speak of
mother? I love to talk of mother."

"Yes, my dear, of course you can talk of your mother," answered Mr. Balch,
with great embarrassment; "only, you know, my child, you need not enter
into particulars as regards her appearance; that is, you--ah!--need not
say she was a <DW52> woman. You _must not_ say that; you understand?"

"Yes, sir," answered Clarence.

"Very well, then; bear that in mind. You must know, Clarence," continued
he, "that this concealment is necessary for your welfare, or we would not
require it; and you must let me impress it upon you, that it is requisite
that you attend strictly to our directions."

Mr. Walters remained silent during most of this conversation. He felt a
repugnance to force upon the child a concealment the beneficial results of
which were the reverse of obvious, so he merely gave Clarence some useful
advice respecting his general conduct, and then permitted him to leave the
room.

The morning fixed upon for their departure for Sudbury turned out to be
cold and cheerless; and Clarence felt very gloomy as he sat beside his
sister at their early breakfast, of which he was not able to eat a morsel.
"Do eat something, Clary," said she, coaxingly; "only look what nice
buckwheat cakes these are; cook got up ever so early on purpose to bake
them for you."

"No, sis," he replied, "I can't eat. I feel so miserable, everything chokes
me."

"Well, eat a biscuit, then," she continued, as she buttered it and laid it
on his plate; "do eat it, now."

More to please her than from a desire to eat, he forced down a few
mouthfuls of it, and drank a little tea; then, laying his arm round her
neck, he said, "Em, you must try hard to learn to write soon, so that I may
hear from you at least once a week."

"Oh! I shall soon know how, I'm in g's and h's now. Aunt Esther--she says I
may call her Aunt Esther--teaches me every day. Ain't I getting on nicely?"

"Oh, yes, you learn very fast," said Esther, encouragingly, as she
completed the pile of sandwiches she was preparing for the young traveller;
then, turning to look at the timepiece on the mantel, she exclaimed,
"Quarter to seven--how time flies! Mr. Balch will soon be here. You must
be all ready, Clarence, so as not to keep him waiting a moment."

Clarence arose from his scarcely tasted meal, began slowly to put on his
overcoat, and make himself ready for the journey. Em tied on the warm
woollen neck-comforter, kissing him on each cheek as she did so, and whilst
they were thus engaged, Mr. Balch drove up to the door.

Charlie, who had come down to see him off, tried (with his mouth full of
buckwheat cake) to say something consolatory, and gave it as his
experience, "that a fellow soon got over that sort of thing; that
separations must occur sometimes," &c.--and, on the whole, endeavoured to
talk in a very manly and philosophical strain; but his precepts and
practice proved to be at utter variance, for when the moment of separation
really came and he saw the tearful embrace of Em and her brother, he caught
the infection of grief, and cried as heartily as the best of them. There
was but little time, however, to spare for leave-takings, and the young
traveller and his guardian were soon whirling over the road towards New
York.

By a singular chance, Clarence found himself in the same car in which he
had formerly rode when they were on their way to Philadelphia: he
recognized it by some peculiar paintings on the panel of the door, and the
ornamental border of the ceiling. This brought back a tide of memories, and
he began contrasting that journey with the present. Opposite was the seat
on which his parents had sat, in the bloom of health, and elate with;
joyous anticipations; he remembered--oh! so well--his father's pleasant
smile, his mother's soft and gentle voice. Both now were gone. Death had
made rigid that smiling face--her soft voice was hushed for ever--and the
cold snow was resting on their bosoms in the little churchyard miles away.
Truly the contrast between now and then was extremely saddening, and the
child bowed his head upon the seat, and sobbed in bitter grief.

"What is the matter?" asked Mr. Balch; "not crying again, I hope. I
thought you were going to be a man, and that we were not to have any more
tears. Come!" continued he, patting him encouragingly on the back, "cheer
up! You are going to a delightful place, where you will find a number of
agreeable playmates, and have a deal of fun, and enjoy yourself amazingly."

"But it won't be _home_," replied Clarence.

"True," replied Mr. Balch, a little touched, "it won't seem so at first;
but you'll soon like it, I'll guarantee that."

Clarence was not permitted to indulge his grief to any great extent, for
Mr. Balch soon succeeded in interesting him in the various objects that
they passed on the way.

On the evening of the next day they arrived at their destination, and
Clarence alighted from the cars, cold, fatigued, and spiritless. There had
been a heavy fall of snow a few days previous, and the town of Sudbury,
which was built upon the hill-side, shone white and sparkling in the clear
winter moonlight.

It was the first time that Clarence had ever seen the ground covered with
snow, and he could not restrain his admiration at the novel spectacle it
presented to him. "Oh, look!--oh, do look! Mr. Balch," he exclaimed, "how
beautifully white it looks; it seems as if the town was built of salt."

It was indeed a pretty sight. Near them stood a clump of fantastic-shaped
trees, their gnarled limbs covered with snow, and brilliant with the
countless icicles that glistened like precious stones in the bright light
that was reflected upon them from the windows of the station. A little
farther on, between them and the town, flowed a small stream, the waters of
which were dimpling and sparkling in the moonlight. Beside its banks arose
stately cotton-mills, and from their many windows hundreds of lights were
shining. Behind them, tier above tier, were the houses of the town; and
crowning the hill was the academy, with its great dome gleaming on its top
like a silver cap upon a mountain of snow. The merry sleigh-bells and the
crisp tramp of the horses upon the frozen ground were all calculated to
make a striking impression on one beholding such a scene for the first
time.

Clarence followed Mr. Balch into the sleigh, delighted and bewildered with
the surrounding objects. The driver whipped up his horses, they clattered
over the bridge, dashed swiftly through the town, and in a very short
period arrived at the dwelling of Mr. Eustis.

The horses had scarcely stopped, when the door flew open, and a stream of
light from the hall shone down the pathway to the gate. Mr. Eustis came out
on the step to welcome them. After greeting Mr. Balch warmly, he took
Clarence by the hand, and led him into the room where his sister was
sitting.

"Here is our little friend," said he to her, as she arose and approached
them; "try and get him warm, Ada--his hands are like ice."

Miss Ada Bell welcomed Clarence in the most affectionate manner, assisted
him to remove his coat, unfastened his woollen neck-tie, and smoothed down
his glossy black hair; then, warming a napkin, she wrapped it round his
benumbed hands, and held them in her own until the circulation was restored
and they were supple and comfortable again.

Miss Ada Bell appeared to be about thirty-five. She had good regular
features, hazel eyes, and long chestnut curls: a mouth with the sweetest
expression, and a voice so winning and affectionate in its tone that it
went straight to the hearts of all that listened to its music.

"Had you a pleasant journey?" she asked.

"It was rather cold," answered Clarence, "and I am not accustomed to frosty
weather."

"And did you leave all your friends well?" she continued, as she chafed his
hands.

"Quite well, I thank you," he replied.

"I hear you have a little sister; were you not sorry to leave her behind?"

This question called up the tearful face of little Em and her last embrace.
He could not answer; he only raised his mournful dark eyes to the face of
Miss Ada, and as he looked at her they grew moist, and a tear sparkled on
his long lashes. Miss Ada felt that she had touched a tender chord, so she
stooped down and kissed his forehead, remarking, "You have a good face,
Clarence, and no doubt an equally good heart; we shall get on charmingly
together, I know." Those kind words won the orphan's heart, and from that
day forth. Clarence loved her. Tea was soon brought upon the table, and
they all earnestly engaged in the discussion of the various refreshments
that Miss Ada's well-stocked larder afforded. Everything was so fresh and
nicely flavoured that both the travellers ate very heartily; then, being
much fatigued with their two days' journey, they seized an early
opportunity to retire.

       *       *       *       *       *

Here we leave Clarence for many years; the boy will have become a man ere
we re-introduce him, and, till then, we bid him adieu.



CHAPTER XXVIII.

Charlie seeks Employment.


Charlie had been at borne some weeks, comparatively idle; at least he so
considered himself, as the little he did in the way of collecting rents and
looking up small accounts for Mr. Walters he regarded as next to nothing,
it not occupying half his time. A part of each day he spent in attendance
on his father, who seemed better satisfied with his ministrations than with
those of his wife and daughters. This proved to be very fortunate for all
parties, as it enabled the girls to concentrate their attention on their
sewing--of which they had a vast deal on hand.

One day, when Esther and Charlie were walking out together, the latter
remarked: "Ess, I wish I could find some regular and profitable employment,
or was apprenticed to some good trade that would enable me to assist mother
a little; I'd even go to service if I could do no better--anything but
being idle whilst you are all so hard at work. It makes me feel very
uncomfortable."

"I would be very glad if you could procure some suitable employment. I
don't wish you to go to service again, that is out of the question. Of whom
have you made inquiry respecting a situation."

"Oh, of lots of people; they can tell me of any number of families who are
in want of a footman, but no one appears to know of a 'person who is
willing to receive a black boy as an apprentice to a respectable calling.
It's too provoking; I really think, Ess, that the majority of white folks
imagine that we are only fit for servants, and incapable of being rendered
useful in any other capacity. If that terrible misfortune had not befallen
father, I should have learned his trade."

"Ah!" sighed Esther, "but for that we should all have been happier. But,
Charlie," she added, "how do you know that you cannot obtain any other
employment than that of a servant? Have you ever applied personally to any
one?"

"No, Esther, I haven't; but you know as well as I that white masters won't
receive  apprentices."

"I think a great deal of that is taken for granted," rejoined Esther, "try
some one yourself."

"I only wish I knew of any one to try," responded Charlie, "I'd hazard the
experiment at any rate."

"Look over the newspaper in the morning," advised Esther; "there are always
a great many wants advertised--amongst them you may perhaps find something
suitable."

"Well, I will Ess--now then we won't talk about that any more--pray tell
me, if I'm not too inquisitive, what do you purpose buying with your
money--a wedding-dress, eh?" he asked, with a merry twinkle in his eye.

Esther blushed and sighed, as she answered: "No, Charlie, that is all over
for the present. I told him yesterday I could not think of marrying now,
whilst we are all so unsettled. It grieved me to do it, Charlie, but I felt
that it was my duty. Cad and I are going to add our savings to mother's;
that, combined with what we shall receive for father's tools, good-will,
&c, will be sufficient to furnish another house; and as soon as we can
succeed in that, we will leave Mr. Walters, as it is embarrassing to remain
under present circumstances."

"And what is to become of little Em?--she surely won't remain alone with
him?"

"Mr. Walters has proposed that when we procure a house she shall come and
board with us. He wants us to take one of his houses, and offers some
fabulous sum for the child's board, which it would be unreasonable in us to
take. Dear, good man, he is always complaining that we are too proud, and
won't let him assist us when he might. If we find a suitable house I shall
be delighted to have her. I love the child for her mother's sake and her
own."

"I wonder if they will ever send her away, as they did Clarence?" asked
Charlie.

"I do not know," she rejoined. "Mr. Balch told me that he should not insist
upon it if the child was unwilling."

The next day Charlie purchased all the morning papers he could obtain, and
sat down to look over the list of wants. There were hungry people in want
of professed cooks; divers demands for chamber-maids, black or white;
special inquiries for waiters and footmen, in which the same disregard of
colour was observable; advertisements for partners in all sorts of
businesses, and for journeymen in every department of mechanical
operations; then there were milliners wanted, sempstresses, and even
theatrical assistants, but nowhere in the long columns could he discover:
"Wanted, a boy." Charlie searched them over and over, but the stubborn fact
stared him in the face--there evidently were no boys wanted; and he at
length concluded that he either belonged to a very useless class, or that
there was an unaccountable prejudice existing in the city against the
rising generation.

Charlie folded up the papers with a despairing sigh, and walked to the
post-office to mail a letter to Mrs. Bird that he had written the previous
evening. Having noticed a number of young men examining some written
notices that were posted up, he joined the group, and finding it was a list
of wants he eagerly read them over.

To his great delight he found there was one individual at least, who
thought boys could be rendered useful to society, and who had written as
follows: "Wanted, a youth of about thirteen years of age who writes a good
hand, and is willing to make himself useful in an office.--Address, Box No.
77, Post-office."

"I'm their man!" said Charlie to himself, as he finished perusing it--"I'm
just the person. I'll go home and write to them immediately;" and
accordingly he hastened back to the house, sat down, and wrote a reply to
the advertisement. He then privately showed it to Esther, who praised the
writing and composition, and pronounced the whole very neatly done.

Charlie then walked down to the post-office to deposit his precious reply;
and after dropping it into the brass mouth of the mail-box, he gazed in
after it, and saw it glide slowly down into the abyss below.

How many more had stopped that day to add their contributions to the mass
which Charlie's letter now joined? Merchants on the brink of ruin had
deposited missives whose answer would make or break them; others had
dropped upon the swelling heap tidings that would make poor men rich--rich
men richer; maidens came with delicately written notes, perfumed and
gilt-edged, eloquent with love--and cast them amidst invoices and bills of
lading. Letters of condolence and notes of congratulation jostled each
other as they slid down the brass throat; widowed mothers' tender epistles
to wandering sons; the letters of fond wives to absent husbands; erring
daughters' last appeals to outraged parents; offers of marriage;
invitations to funerals; hope and despair; joy and sorrow; misfortune and
success--had glided in one almost unbroken stream down that ever-distended
and insatiable brass throat.

Charlie gave one more look at the opening, then sauntered homeward,
building by the way houses of fabulous dimensions, with the income he
anticipated from the situation if he succeeded in procuring it. Throughout
the next day he was in a state of feverish anxiety and expectation, and
Mrs. Ellis two or three times inquired the meaning of the mysterious
whisperings and glances that were exchanged between him and Esther. The day
wore away, and yet no answer--the next came and passed, still no
communication; and Charlie had given up in despair, when he was agreeably
surprised by the following:----

"Messrs. Twining, Western, and Twining will be much obliged to Charles
Ellis, if he will call at their office, 567, Water-street, to-morrow
morning at eleven o'clock, as they would like to communicate further with
him respecting a situation in their establishment."

Charlie flew up stairs to Esther's room, and rushing in precipitately,
exclaimed, "Oh! Ess--I've got it, I've got it--see here," he shouted,
waving the note over his head; "Hurrah! Hurrah! Just read it, Ess, only
just read it!"

"How can I, Charlie?" said she, with a smile, "if you hold it in your hand
and dance about in that frantic style--give it me. There now--keep quiet a
moment, and let me read it." After perusing it attentively, Esther added,
"Don't be too sanguine, Charlie. You see by the tenor of the note that the
situation is not promised you; they only wish to see you respecting it. You
may not secure it, after all--some obstacle may arise of which we are not
at present aware."

"Go on, old raven--croak away!" said Charlie, giving her at the same time a
facetious poke.

"There's many a slip between the cup and the lip," she added.

"Oh, Ess!" he rejoined, "don't throw cold water on a fellow in that
style--don't harbour so many doubts. Do you think they would take the
trouble to write if they did not intend to give me the situation? Go away,
old raven," concluded he, kissing her, "and don't let us have any more
croaking."

Charlie was bounding from the room, when he was stopped by his sister, who
begged him not to say anything to their mother respecting it, but wait
until they knew the issue of the interview; and, if he secured the
situation, it would be a very agreeable surprise to her.

We will now visit, in company with the reader, the spacious offices of
Messrs. Twining, Western, and Twining, where we shall find Mr. Western
about consigning to the waste-paper basket a large pile of letters. This
gentleman was very fashionably dressed, of dark complexion, with the
languid air and drawling intonation of a Southerner.

At an adjoining desk sat an elderly sharp-faced gentleman, who was looking
over his spectacles at the movements of his partner. "What a mass of
letters you are about to destroy," he remarked.

Mr. Western took from his month the cigar he was smoking, and after puffing
from between his lips a thin wreath of smoke, replied: "Some of the most
atwocious scwawls that man ever attempted to pewuse,--weplies to the
advertisement. Out of the whole lot there wasn't more than a dozen amongst
them that were weally pwesentable. Here is one wemawkably well witten: I
have desiwed the witer to call this morning at eleven. I hope he will make
as favouwable an impwession as his witing has done. It is now almost
eleven--I pwesume he will be here soon."

Scarcely had Mr. Western finished speaking, ere the door opened, and Esther
entered, followed by Charlie. Both the gentlemen rose, and Mr. Twining
offered her a chair.

Esther accepted the proffered seat, threw up her veil, and said, in a
slightly embarrassed tone, "My brother here, took the liberty of replying
to an advertisement of yours, and you were kind enough to request him to
call at eleven to-day."

"We sent a note to _your_ brother?" said Mr. Twining, in a tone of
surprise.

"Yes, sir, and here it is," said she, extending it to him.

Mr. Twining glanced over it, and remarked, "This is your writing, Western;"
then taking Charlie's letter from the desk of Mr. Western, he asked, in a
doubting tone, "Is this your own writing and composition?"

"My own writing and composing," answered Charlie.

"And it is vewy cweditable to you, indeed," said Mr. Western.

Both the gentlemen looked at the note again, then at Charlie, then at
Esther, and lastly at each other; but neither seemed able to say anything,
and evident embarrassment existed on both sides.

"And so you thought you would twy for the situation," at last remarked Mr.
Western to Charlie.

"Yes, sir," he answered. "I was and am very anxious to obtain some
employment." "Have you a father?" asked Mr. Twining.

"Yes, sir; but he was badly injured by the mob last summer, and will never
be able to work again."

"That's a pity," said Western, sympathisingly; "and what have you been
doing?"

"Nothing very recently. I broke my arm last spring, and was obliged to go
into the country for my health. I have not long returned."

"Do your pawents keep house?"

"Not at present. We are staying with a friend. Our house was burned down by
the rioters."

This conversation recalled so vividly their past trials, that Esther's eyes
grew watery, and she dropped her veil to conceal a tear that was trembling
on the lid.

"How vewy unfortunate!" said Mr. Western, sympathisingly; "vewy twying,
indeed!" then burying his chin in his hand, he sat silently regarding them
for a moment or two.

"Have you come to any decision about taking him?" Esther at last ventured
to ask of Mr. Twining.

"Taking him!--oh, dear me, I had almost forgot. Charles, let me see you
write something--here, take this seat."

Charlie sat down as directed, and dashed off a few lines, which he handed
to Mr. Twining, who looked at it over and over; then rising, he beckoned to
his partner to follow him into an adjoining room.

"Well, what do you say?" asked Western, after they had closed the door
behind them. "Don't you think we had better engage him?"

"Engage _him_!" exclaimed Twining--"why, you surprise me, Western--the
thing's absurd; engage a <DW52> boy as under clerk! I never heard of such
a thing."

"I have often," drawled Western; "there are the gweatest number of them in
New Orleans."

"Ah, but New Orleans is a different place; such a thing never occurred in
Philadelphia."

"Well, let us cweate a pwecedent, then. The boy wites wemarkably well, and
will, no doubt, suit us exactly. It will be a chawity to take him. We need
not care what others say--evewybody knows who we are and what we are?"

"No, Western; I know the North better than you do; it wouldn't answer at
all here. We cannot take the boy--it is impossible; it would create a
rumpus amongst the clerks, who would all feel dreadfully insulted by our
placing a <DW65> child on an equality with them. I assure you the thing is
out of the question."

"Well, I must say you Northern people are perfectly incompwehensible. You
pay taxes to have <DW65>s educated, and made fit for such places--and then
won't let them fill them when they are pwepared to do so. I shall leave
you, then, to tell them we can't take him. I'm doosed sowwy for it--I like
his looks."

Whilst Mr. Western and his partner were discussing in one room, Charlie and
Esther were awaiting with some anxiety their decision in the other.

"I think they are going to take me," said Charlie; "you saw how struck they
appeared to be with the writing."

"They admired it, I know, my dear; but don't be too sanguine."

"I feel _sure_ they are going to take me," repeated he with a hopeful
countenance.

Esther made no reply, and they remained in silence until Mr. Twining
returned to the room.

After two or three preparatory ahems, he said to Esther; "I should like to
take your brother very much; but you see, in consequence of there being so
much excitement just now, relative to Abolitionism and kindred subjects,
that my partner and myself--that is, I and Mr. Western--think--or rather
feel--that just now it would be rather awkward for us to receive him. We
should like to take him; but his _colour_, miss--his complexion is a
_fatal_ objection. It grieves me to be obliged to tell you this; but I
think, under the circumstances, it would be most prudent for us to decline
to receive him. We are _very_ sorry--but our clerks are all young men, and
have a great deal of prejudice, and I am sure he would be neither
comfortable nor happy with them. If I can serve you in any other way--"

"There is nothing that you can do that I am aware of," said Esther, rising;
"I thank you, and am sorry that we have occupied so much of your time."

"Oh, don't mention it," said Mr. Twining, evidently happy to get rid of
them; and, opening the door, he bowed them out of the office.

The two departed sadly, and they walked on for some distance in silence. At
last Esther pressed his hand, and, in a choking voice, exclaimed, "Charlie,
my dear boy, I'd give my life if it would change your complexion--if it
would make you white! Poor fellow! your battle of life will be a hard one
to fight!"

"I know it, Ess; but I shouldn't care to be white if I knew I would not
have a dear old Ess like you for a sister," he answered, pressing her hand
affectionately. "I don't intend to be conquered," he continued; "I'll fight
it out to the last--this won't discourage me. I'll keep on trying," said
he, determinedly--"if one won't, perhaps another will."

For two or three days Charlie could hear of nothing that would be at all
suitable for him. At last, one morning he saw an advertisement for a youth
to learn the engraver's business--one who had some knowledge of drawing
preferred; to apply at Thomas Blatchford's, bank-note engraver. "Thomas
Blatchford," repeated Mr. Walters, as Charlie read it over--"why that is
_the_ Mr. Blatchford, the Abolitionist. I think you have some chance there
most decidedly--I would advise you to take those sketches of yours and
apply at once."

Charlie ran upstairs, and selecting the best-executed of his drawings, put
them in a neat portfolio, and, without saying anything to Esther or his
mother, hastened away to Mr. Blatchford's. He was shown into a room where a
gentleman was sitting at a table examining some engraved plates. "Is this
Mr. Blatchford's?" asked Charlie.

"That is my name, my little man--do you want to see me," he kindly
inquired.

"Yes, sir. You advertised for a boy to learn the engraving business, I
believe."

"Well; and what then?"

"I have come to apply for the situation."

"_You--you_ apply?" said he, in a tone of surprise.

"Yes, sir," faltered Charlie; "Mr. Walters recommended me to do so."

"Ah, you know Mr. Walters, then," he rejoined.

"Yes, sir; he is a great friend of my father's--we are living with him at
present."

"What have you in your portfolio, there?" enquired Mr. Blatchford. Charlie
spread before him the sketches he had made during the summer, and also some
ornamental designs suitable for the title-pages of books. "Why, these are
excellently well done," exclaimed he, after examining them attentively;
"who taught you?"

Charlie hereupon briefly related his acquaintance with the artist, and his
efforts to obtain employment, and their results, besides many other
circumstances connected with himself and family. Mr. Blatchford became
deeply interested, and, at the end of a long conversation, delighted
Charlie by informing him that if he and his mother could agree as to terms
he should be glad to receive him as an apprentice.

Charlie could scarcely believe the evidence of his own ears, and leaving
his portfolio on the table was hastening away.

"Stop! stop!" cried Mr. Blatchford, with a smile; "you have not heard all I
wish to say. I would be much obliged to your mother if she would call at my
house this evening, and then we can settle the matter definitely."

Charlie seemed to tread on air as he walked home. Flying up to Esther--his
usual confidant--be related to her the whole affair, and gave at great
length his conversation with Mr. Blatchford.

"That looks something like," said she; "I am delighted with the prospect
that is opening to you. Let us go and tell mother,"--and, accordingly, off
they both started, to carry the agreeable intelligence to Mrs. Ellis.

That, evening Charlie, his mother, and Mr. Walters went to the house of Mr.
Blatchford. They were most, kindly received, and all the arrangements made
for Charlie's apprenticeship. He was to remain one month on trial; and if,
at the end of that period, all parties were satisfied, he was to be
formally indentured.

Charlie looked forward impatiently to the following Monday, on which day he
was to commence his apprenticeship. In the intervening time he held daily
conferences with Kinch, as he felt their intimacy would receive a slight
check after he entered upon his new pursuit.

"Look here, old fellow," said Charlie; "it won't do for you to be lounging
on the door-steps of the office, nor be whistling for me under the windows.
Mr. Blatchford spoke particularly against my having playmates around in
work hours; evenings I shall always be at home, and then you can come and
see me as often as you like."

Since his visit to Warmouth, Charlie had been much more particular
respecting his personal appearance, dressed neater, and was much more
careful of his clothes. He had also given up marbles, and tried to persuade
Kinch to do the same.

"I'd cut marbles, Kinch," said he to him one evening, when they were
walking together, "if I were you; it makes one such a fright--covers one
with chalk-marks and dirt from head to foot. And another thing, Kinch; you
have an abundance of good clothes--do wear them, and try and look more like
a gentleman."

"Dear me!" said Kinch, rolling up the white of his eyes--"just listen how
we are going on! Hadn't I better get an eye-glass and pair of light kid
gloves?"

"Oh, Kinch!" said Charlie, gravely, "I'm not joking--I mean what I say. You
don't know how far rough looks and an untidy person go against one. I do
wish you would try and keep yourself decent." "Well, there then--I will,"
answered Kinch. "But, Charlie, I'm afraid, with your travelling and one
thing or other, you will forget your old playmate by-and-by, and get above
him."

Charlie's eyes moistened; and, with a boy's impulsiveness, he threw his arm
over Kinch's shoulder, and exclaimed with emphasis, "Never, old fellow,
never--not as long as my name is Charlie Ellis! You mustn't be hurt at what
I said, Kinch--I think more of these things than I used to--I see the
importance of them. I find that any one who wants to get on must be
particular in little things as well great, and I must try and be a man
now--for you know things don't glide on as smoothly with us as they used. I
often think of our fun in the old house--ah, perhaps we'll have good times
in another of our own yet!"--and with this Charlie and his friend separated
for the night.



CHAPTER XXIX.

Clouds and Sunshine.


The important Monday at length arrived, and Charlie hastened to the office
of Mr. Blatchford, which he reached before the hour for commencing labour.
He found some dozen or more journeymen assembled in the work-room; and
noticed that upon his entrance there was an interchange of significant
glances, and once or twice he overheard the whisper of "<DW65>."

Mr. Blatchford was engaged in discussing some business matter with a
gentleman, and did not observe the agitation that Charlie's entrance had
occasioned. The conversation having terminated, the gentleman took up the
morning paper, and Mr. Blatchford, noticing Charlie, said, "Ah! you have
come, and in good time, too. Wheeler," he continued, turning to one of the
workmen, "I want you to take this boy under your especial charge: give him
a seat at your window, and overlook his work."

At this there was a general uprising of the workmen, who commenced throwing
off their caps and aprons. "What is all this for?" asked Mr. Blatchford in
astonishment--"why this commotion?"

"We won't work with <DW65>s!" cried one; "No <DW65> apprentices!" cried
another; and "No <DW65>s--no <DW65>s!" was echoed from all parts of the
room.

"Silence!" cried Mr. Blatchford, stamping violently--"silence, every one of
you!" As soon as partial order was restored, he turned to Wheeler, and
demanded, "What is the occasion of all this tumult--what does it mean?"

"Why, sir, it means just this: the men and boys discovered that you
intended to take a <DW65> apprentice, and have made up their minds if you
do they will quit in a body."

"It cannot be possible," exclaimed the employer, "that any man or boy in my
establishment has room in his heart for such narrow contemptible
prejudices. Can it be that you have entered into a conspiracy to deprive an
inoffensive child of an opportunity of earning his bread in a respectable
manner? Come, let me persuade you--the boy is well-behaved and educated!"

"Damn his behaviour and education!" responded a burly fellow; "let him be a
barber or shoe-black--that is all <DW65>s are good for. If he comes, we
go--that's so, ain't it, boys?"

There was a general response of approval to this appeal; and Mr.
Blatchford, seeing the utter uselessness of further parleying, left the
room, followed by Charlie and the gentleman with whom he had been
conversing.

Mr. Blatchford was placed in a most disagreeable position by this revolt on
the part of his workmen; he had just received large orders from some new
banks which were commencing operations, and a general disruption of his
establishment at that moment would have ruined him. To accede to his
workmen's demands he must do violence to his own conscience; but he dared
not sacrifice his business and bring ruin on himself and family, even
though he was right.

"What would you do, Burrell?" he asked of the gentleman who had followed
them out.

"There is no question as to what you must do. You mustn't ruin yourself for
the sake of your principles. You will have to abandon the lad; the other
alternative is not to be thought of for a moment."

"Well, Charles, you see how it is," said Mr. Blatchford, reluctantly.
Charlie had been standing intently regarding the conversation that
concerned him so deeply. His face was pale and his lips quivering with
agitation.

"I'd like to keep you, my boy, but you see how I'm situated, I must either
give up you or my business; the latter I cannot afford to do." With a great
effort Charlie repressed his tears, and bidding them good morning in a
choking voice, hastened from the room.

"It's an infernal shame!" said Mr. Blatchford, indignantly; "and I shall
think meanly of myself for ever for submitting to it; but I can't help
myself, and must make the best of it."

Charlie walked downstairs with lingering steps, and took the direction of
home. "All because I'm ," said he, bitterly, to himself--"all
because I'm ! What will mother and Esther say? How it will distress
them--they've so built upon it! I wish," said he, sadly, "that I was dead!"
No longer able to repress the tears that were welling up, he walked towards
the window of a print-store, where he pretended to be deeply interested in
some pictures whilst he stealthily wiped his eyes. Every time he turned to
leave the window, there came a fresh flood of tears; and at last he was
obliged to give way entirely, and sobbed as if his heart would break.

He was thus standing when he felt a hand laid familiarly on his shoulder,
and, on turning round, he beheld the gentleman he had left in Mr.
Blatchford's office. "Come, my little man," said he, "don't take it so much
to heart. Cheer up--you may find some other person willing to employ you.
Come, walk on with me--where do you live?" Charlie dried his eyes and gave
him his address as they walked on up the street together.

Mr. Burrell talked encouragingly, and quite succeeded in soothing him ere
they separated. "I shall keep a look out for you," said he, kindly; "and if
I hear of anything likely to suit you, I shall let you know."

Charlie thanked him and sauntered slowly home. When he arrived, and they
saw his agitated looks, and his eyes swollen from the effect of recent
tears, there was a general inquiry of "What has happened? Why are you home
so early; are you sick?"

Charlie hereupon related all that had transpired at the office--his great
disappointment and the occasion of it--to the intense indignation and grief
of his mother and sisters. "I wish there were no white folks," said
Caddy, wrathfully; "they are all, I believe, a complete set of villains and
everything else that is bad."

"Don't be so sweeping in your remarks, pray don't, Caddy," interposed
Esther; "you have just heard what Charlie said of Mr. Blatchford--his heart
is kindly disposed, at any rate; you see he is trammelled by others."

"Oh! well, I don't like any of them--I hate them all!" she continued
bitterly, driving her needle at the same time into the cloth she was
sewing, as if it was a white person she had in her lap and she was sticking
pins in him. "Don't cry, Charlie," she added; "the old white wretches, they
shouldn't get a tear out of me for fifty trades!" But Charlie could not be
comforted; he buried his head in his mother's lap, and wept over his
disappointment until he made himself sick.

That day, after Mr. Burrell had finished his dinner, he remarked to his
wife, "I saw something this morning, my dear, that made a deep impression
on me. I haven't been able to get it out of my head for any length of time
since; it touched me deeply, I assure you."

"Why, what could it have been? Pray tell me what it was."

Thereupon, he gave his wife a graphic account of the events that had
transpired at Blatchford's in the morning; and in conclusion, said, "Now,
you know, my dear, that no one would call _me_ an _Abolitionist_; and I
suppose I have some little prejudice, as well as others, against <DW52>
people; but I had no idea that sensible men would have carried it to that
extent, to set themselves up, as they did, in opposition to a little boy
anxious to earn his bread by learning a useful trade."

Mrs. Burrell was a young woman of about twenty-two, with a round
good-natured face and plump comfortable-looking figure; she had a heart
overflowing with kindness, and was naturally much affected by what he
related. "I declare it's perfectly outrageous," exclaimed she, indignantly;
"and I wonder at Blatchford for submitting to it. I wouldn't allow myself
to be dictated to in that manner--and he such an Abolitionist too! Had I
been him, I should have stuck to my principles at any risk. Poor little
fellow! I so wonder at Blatchford; I really don't think he has acted
manly."

"Not so fast, my little woman, if you please--that is the way with almost
all of you, you let your hearts run away with your heads. You are unjust to
Blatchford; he could not help himself, he was completely in their power. It
is almost impossible at present to procure workmen in our business, and he
is under contract to finish a large amount of work within a specified time;
and if he should fail to fulfil his agreement it would subject him to
immense loss--in fact, it would entirely ruin him. You are aware, my dear,
that I am thoroughly acquainted with the state of his affairs; he is
greatly in debt from unfortunate speculations, and a false step just now
would overset him completely; he could not have done otherwise than he has,
and do justice to himself and his family. I felt that he could not; and in
fact advised him to act as he did."

"Now, George Burrell, you didn't," said she, reproachfully.

"Yes I did, my dear, because I thought of his family; I really believe
though, had I encouraged him, he would have made the sacrifice."

"And what became of the boy?"

"Oh; poor lad, he seemed very much cut down by it--I was quite touched by
his grief. When I came out, I found him standing by a shop window crying
bitterly. I tried to pacify him, and told him I would endeavour to obtain a
situation for him somewhere--and I shall."

"Has he parents?" asked Mrs. Burrell.

"Yes; and, by the way, don't you remember whilst the mob was raging last
summer, we read an account of a man running to the roof of a house to
escape from the rioters? You remember they chopped his hands off and threw
him over?"

"Oh, yes, dear, I recollect; don't--don't mention it," said she, with a
shudder of horror. "I remember it perfectly."

"Well, this little fellow is his son," continued Mr. Burrell.

"Indeed! and what has become of his father--did he die?"

"No, he partially recovered, but is helpless, and almost an idiot. I never
saw a child, apparently so anxious to get work; he talked more like a man
with a family dependent upon him for support, than a youth. I tell you
what, I became quite interested in him; he was very communicative, and told
me all their circumstances; their house was destroyed by the mob, and they
are at present residing with a friend."

Just then the cry of a child was heard in the adjoining room, and Mrs.
Burrell rushed precipitately away, and soon returned with a fat,
healthy-looking boy in her arms, which, after kissing, she placed in her
husband's lap. He was their first-born and only child, and, as a matter of
course, a great pet, and regarded by them as a most wonderful boy; in
consequence, papa sat quite still, and permitted him to pull the studs out
of his shirt, untie his cravat, rumple his hair, and take all those little
liberties to which babies are notoriously addicted.

Mrs. Burrell sat down on a stool at her husband's feet, and gazed at him
and the child in silence for some time.

"What's the matter, Jane; what has made you so grave?"

"I was trying to imagine, Burrell, how I should feel if you, I, and baby
were ; I was trying to place myself in such a situation. Now we
know that our boy, if he is honest and upright--is blest with great talent
or genius--may aspire to any station in society that he wishes to obtain.
How different it would be if he were !--there would be nothing
bright in the prospective for him. We could hardly promise him a living at
any respectable calling. I think, George, we treat <DW52> people with
great injustice, don't you?"

Mr. Burrell hemmed and ha'd at this direct query, and answered, "Well, we
don't act exactly right toward them, I must confess."

Mrs. Burrell rose, and took the vacant knee of her husband, and toying with
the baby, said, "Now, George Burrell, I want to ask a favour of you. Why
can't _you_ take this boy ?" "I take him! why, my dear, I don't want an
apprentice."

"Yes, but you must _make_ a want. You said he was a bright boy, and
sketched well. Why, I should think that he's just what you ought to have.
There is no one at your office that would oppose it. Cummings and Dalton
were with your father before you, they would never object to anything
reasonable that you proposed. Come, dear! do now make the trial--won't
you?"

Mr. Burrell was a tender-hearted, yielding sort of an individual; and what
was more, his wife was fully aware of it; and like a young witch as she
was, she put on her sweetest looks, and begged so imploringly, that he was
almost conquered. But when she took up the baby, and made him put his
chubby arms round his father's neck, and say "pese pop-pop," he was
completely vanquished, and surrendered at discretion.

"I'll see what can be done," said he, at last.

"And will you do it afterwards?" she asked, archly.

"Yes, I will, dear, I assure you," he rejoined.

"Then I know it will be done," said she, confidently; "and none of us will
be the worse off for it, I am sure."

After leaving home, Mr. Burrell went immediately to the office of Mr.
Blatchford; and after having procured Charlie's portfolio, he started in
the direction of his own establishment. He did not by any means carry on so
extensive a business as Mr. Blatchford, and employed only two elderly men
as journeymen. After he had sat down to work, one of them remarked, "Tucker
has been here, and wants some rough cuts executed for a new book. I told
him I did not think you would engage to do them; that you had given up that
description of work."

"I think we lose a great deal, Cummings, by being obliged to give up those
jobs," rejoined Mr. Burrell.

"Why don't you take an apprentice then," he suggested; "it's just the kind
of work for them to learn upon."

"Well I've been thinking of that," replied he, rising and producing the
drawings from Charlie's portfolio. "Look here," said he, "what do you
think of these as the work of a lad of twelve or fourteen, who has never
had more than half a dozen lessons?"

"I should say they were remarkably well done," responded Cummings.
"Shouldn't you say so, Dalton?" The party addressed took the sketches, and
examined them thoroughly, and gave an approving opinion of their merits.

"Well," said Mr. Burrell, "the boy that executed those is in want of a
situation, and I should like to take him; but I thought I would consult you
both about it first. I met with him under very singular circumstances, and
I'll tell you all about it." And forthwith he repeated to them the
occurrences of the morning, dwelling upon the most affecting parts, and
concluding by putting the question to them direct, as to whether they had
any objections to his taking him.

"Why no, none in the world," readily answered Cummings. "Laws me! colour is
nothing after all; and black fingers can handle a graver as well as white
ones, I expect."

"I thought it best to ask you, to avoid any after difficulty. You have both
been in the establishment so long, that I felt that you ought to be
consulted."

"You needn't have taken that trouble," said Dalton. "You might have known
that anything done by your father's son, would be satisfactory to us. I
never had anything to do with <DW52> people, and haven't anything against
them; and as long as you are contented I am."

"Well, we all have our little prejudices against various things; and as I
did not know how you both would feel, I thought I wouldn't take any decided
steps without consulting you; but now I shall consider it settled, and will
let the lad know that I will take him."

In the evening, he hastened home at an earlier hour than usual, and
delighted his wife by saying--"I have succeeded to a charm, my dear--there
wasn't the very slightest objection. I'm going to take the boy, if he
wishes to come." "Oh, I'm delighted," cried she, clapping her hands. "Cry
hurrah for papa!" said she to the baby; "cry hurrah for papa!"

The scion of the house of Burrell gave vent to some scarcely intelligible
sounds, that resembled "Hoo-rogler pop-pop!" which his mother averred was
astonishingly plain, and deserving of a kiss; and, snatching him up, she
gave him two or three hearty ones, and then planted him in his father's lap
again."

"My dear," said her husband, "I thought, as you proposed my taking this
youth, you might like to have the pleasure of acquainting him with his good
fortune. After tea, if you are disposed, we will go down there; the walk
will do you good."

"Oh, George Burrell," said she, her face radiant with pleasure, "you are
certainly trying to outdo yourself. I have been languishing all day for a
walk! What a charming husband you are! I really ought to do something for
you. Ah, I know what--I'll indulge you; you may smoke all the way there and
back. I'll even go so far as to light the cigars for you myself."

"That is a boon," rejoined her husband with a smile; "really 'virtue
rewarded,' I declare."

Tea over, the baby kissed and put to bed, Mrs. Burrell tied on the most
bewitching of bonnets, and donning her new fur-trimmed cloak, declared
herself ready for the walk; and off they started. Mr. Burrell puffed away
luxuriously as they walked along, stopping now and then at her command, to
look into such shop-windows as contained articles adapted to the use of
infants, from india-rubber rings and ivory rattles, to baby coats and
shoes.

At length they arrived at the door of Mr. Walters, and on, looking up at
the house, he exclaimed, "This is 257, but it can't be the place; surely
<DW52> people don't live in as fine an establishment as this." Then,
running up the steps, he examined the plate upon the door. "The name
corresponds with the address given me," said he; "I'll ring. Is there a
lad living here by the name of Charles Ellis?" he asked of the servant who
opened the door.

"Yes, sir," was the reply. "Will you walk in?"

When they were ushered into the drawing-room, Mr. Burrell said,--"Be kind
enough to say that a gentleman wishes to see him."

The girl departed, closing the door behind her, leaving them staring about
the room. "How elegantly it is furnished!" said she. "I hadn't an idea that
there were any <DW52> people living in such style."

"Some of them are very rich," remarked her husband.

"But you said this boy was poor."

"So he is. I understand they are staying with the owner of this house."

Whilst they were thus conversing the door opened, and Esther entered. "I am
sorry," said she, "that my brother has retired. He has a very severe
head-ache, and was unable to remain up longer. His mother is out: I am his
sister, and shall be most happy to receive any communication for him."

"I regret to hear of his indisposition," replied Mr. Burrell; "I hope it is
not consequent upon his disappointment this morning?"

"I fear it is. Poor fellow! he took it very much to heart. It was a
disappointment to us all. We were congratulating ourselves on having
secured him an eligible situation."

"I assure you the disappointment is not all on one side; he is a very
promising boy, and the loss of his prospective services annoying. Nothing
but stern necessity caused the result."

"Oh, we entirely acquit you, Mr. Blatchford, of all blame in the matter. We
are confident that what happened was not occasioned by any indisposition on
your part to fulfil your agreement."

"My dear," interrupted Mrs. Burrell, "she thinks you are Mr. Blatchford."

"And are you not?" asked Esther, with some surprise.

"Oh, no; I'm an intimate friend of his, and was present this morning when
the affair happened." "Oh, indeed," responded Esther.

"Yes; and he came home and related it all to me,--the whole affair,"
interrupted Mrs. Burrell. "I was dreadfully provoked; I assure you, I
sympathized with him very much. I became deeply interested in the whole
affair; I was looking at my little boy,--for I have a little boy," said
she, with matronly dignity,--"and I thought, suppose it was my little boy
being treated so, how should I like it? So bringing the matter home to
myself in that way made me feel all the more strongly about it; and I just
told George Burrell he must take him, as he is an engraver; and I and the
baby gave him no rest until he consented to do so. He will take him on the
same terms offered by Mr. Blatchford; and then we came down to tell you;
and--and," said she, quite out of breath, "that is all about it."

Esther took the little woman's plump hand in both her own, and, for a
moment, seemed incapable of even thanking her. At last she said, in a husky
voice, "You can't think what a relief this is to us. My brother has taken
his disappointment so much to heart--I can't tell you how much I thank you.
God will reward you for your sympathy and kindness. You must excuse me,"
she continued, as her voice faltered; "we have latterly been so
unaccustomed to receive such sympathy and kindness from persons of your
complexion, that this has quite overcome me."

"Oh, now, don't! I'm sure it's no more than our duty, and I'm as much
pleased as you can possibly be--it has given me heartfelt gratification, I
assure you."

Esther repeated her thanks, and followed them to the door, where she shook
hands with Mrs. Burrell, who gave her a pressing invitation to come and see
her baby.

"How easy it is, George Burrell," said the happy little woman, "to make the
hearts of others as light as our own-mine feels like a feather," she added,
as she skipped along, clinging to his arm. "What a nice, lady-like girl his
sister is--is her brother as handsome as she ?"

"Not quite," he answered; "still, he is very good-looking, I'll bring him
home with me to-morrow at dinner, and then you can see him."

Chatting merrily, they soon arrived at home. Mrs. Burrell ran straightway
upstairs to look at that "blessed baby;" she found him sleeping soundly,
and looking as comfortable and happy as it is possible for a sleeping baby
to look--so she bestowed upon him a perfect avalanche of kisses, and
retired to her own peaceful pillow.

And now, having thus satisfactorily arranged for our young friend Charlie,
we will leave him for a few years engaged in his new pursuits.



CHAPTER XXX.

Many Years After.


Old Father Time is a stealthy worker. In youth we are scarcely able to
appreciate his efforts, and oftentimes think him an exceedingly slow and
limping old fellow. When we ripen into maturity, and are fighting our own
way through the battle of life, we deem him swift enough of foot, and
sometimes rather hurried; but when old age comes on, and death and the
grave are foretold by trembling limbs and snowy locks, we wonder that our
course has been so swiftly run, and chide old Time for a somewhat hasty and
precipitate individual.

The reader must imagine that many years have passed away since the events
narrated in the preceding chapters transpired, and permit us to
re-introduce the characters formerly presented, without any attempt to
describe how that long period has been occupied.

First of all, let us resume our acquaintance with Mr. Stevens. To effect
this, we must pay that gentleman a visit at his luxurious mansion in Fifth
Avenue, the most fashionable street of New York--the place where the upper
ten thousand of that vast, bustling city most do congregate. As he is an
old acquaintance (we won't say friend), we will disregard ceremony, and
walk boldly into the library where that gentleman is sitting.

He is changed--yes, sadly changed. Time has been hard at work with him,
and, dissatisfied with what his unaided agency could produce, has called in
conscience to his aid, and their united efforts have left their marks upon
him. He looks old--aye, very old. The bald spot on his head has extended
its limits until there is only a fringe of thin white hair above the ears.
There are deep wrinkles upon his forehead; and the eyes, half obscured by
the bushy grey eyebrows, are bloodshot and sunken; the jaws hollow and
spectral, and his lower lip drooping and flaccid. He lifts his hand to pour
out another glass of liquor from the decanter at his side, when his
daughter lays her hand upon it, and looks appealingly in his face.

She has grown to be a tall, elegant woman, slightly thin, and with a
careworn and fatigued expression of countenance. There is, however, the
same sweetness in her clear blue eyes, and as she moves her head, her fair
flaxen curls float about her face as dreamily and deliciously as ever they
did of yore. She is still in black, wearing mourning for her mother, who
not many months before had been laid in a quiet nook on the estate at
Savanah.

"Pray, papa, don't drink any more," said she, persuasively--"it makes you
nervous, and will bring on one of those frightful attacks again."

"Let me alone," he remonstrated harshly--"let me alone, and take your hand
off the glass; the doctor has forbidden laudanum, so I will have brandy
instead--take off your hand and let me drink, I say."

Lizzie still kept her hand upon the decanter, and continued gently: "No,
no, dear pa--you promised me you would only drink two glasses, and you have
already taken three--it is exceedingly injurious. The doctor insisted upon
it that you should decrease the quantity--and you are adding to it
instead."

"Devil take the doctor!" exclaimed he roughly, endeavouring to disengage
her hold--"give me the liquor, I say."

His daughter did not appear the least alarmed at this violence of manner,
nor suffer her grasp upon the neck of the decanter to be relaxed; but all
the while spoke soothing words to the angry old man, and endeavoured to
persuade him to relinquish his intention of drinking any more.

"You don't respect your old father," he cried, in a whining tone--"you
take advantage of my helplessness, all of you--you ill-treat me and deny me
the very comforts of life! I'll tell--I'll tell the doctor," he continued,
as his voice subsided into an almost inaudible tone, and he sank back into
the chair in a state of semi-stupor.

Removing the liquor from his reach, his daughter rang the bell, and then
walked towards the door of the room.

"Who procured that liquor for my father?" she asked of the servant who
entered.

"I did, miss," answered the man, hesitatingly.

"Let this be the last time you do such a thing," she rejoined, eyeing him
sternly, "unless you wish to be discharged. I thought you all fully
understood that on no consideration was my father to have liquor, unless by
the physician's or my order--it aggravates his disease and neutralizes all
the doctor's efforts--and, unless you wish to be immediately discharged,
never repeat the same offence. Now, procure some assistance--it is time my
father was prepared for bed."

The man bowed and left the apartment; but soon returned, saying there was a
person in the hall who had forced his way into the house, and who
positively refused to stir until he saw Mr. Stevens.

"He has been here two or three times," added the man, "and he is very rough
and impudent."

"This is most singular conduct," exclaimed Miss Stevens. "Did he give his
name?"

"Yes, miss; he calls himself McCloskey."

At the utterance of this well-known name, Mr. Stevens raised his head, and
stared at the speaker with a look of stupid fright, and inquired, "Who
here--what name is that?--speak louder--what name?"

"McCloskey," answered the man, in a louder tone.

"What! he--_he_!" cried Mr. Stevens, with a terrified look. "Where--where
is he?" he continued, endeavouring to rise--"where is he?"

"Stop, pa," interposed his daughter, alarmed at his appearance and manner.
"Do stop--let me go," "No--no!" said the old man wildly, seizing her by
the dress to detain her--"_you_ must not go--that would never do! He might
tell her," he muttered to himself--"No, no--I'll go!"--and thus speaking,
he made another ineffectual attempt to reach the door.

"Dear father! do let me go!" she repeated, imploringly. "You are incapable
of seeing any one--let me inquire what he wants!" she added, endeavouring
to loose his hold upon her dress.

"No--you shall not!" he replied, clutching her dress still tighter, and
endeavouring to draw her towards him.

"Oh, father!" she asked distractedly, "what can this mean? Here," said she,
addressing the servant, who stood gazing in silent wonder on this singular
scene, "help my father into his chair again, and then tell this strange man
to wait awhile."

The exhausted man, having been placed in his chair, motioned to his
daughter to close the door behind the servant, who had just retired.

"He wants money," said he, in a whisper--"he wants money! He'll make
beggars of us all--and yet I'll have to give him some. Quick! give me my
cheque-book--let me give him something before he has a chance to talk to
any one--quick! quick!"

The distracted girl wrung her hands with grief at what she imagined was a
return of her father's malady, and exclaimed, "Oh! if George only would
remain at home--it is too much for me to have the care of father whilst he
is in such a state." Then pretending to be in search of the cheque-book,
she turned over the pamphlets and papers upon his desk, that she might gain
time, and think how it was best to proceed.

Whilst she was thus hesitating, the door of the room was suddenly opened,
and a shabbily dressed man, bearing a strong odour of rum about him, forced
his way into the apartment, saying, "I will see him. D----n it, I don't
care haporth how sick he is--let me go, or by the powers I'll murther some
of yes." The old man's face was almost blanched with terror when he heard
the voice and saw the abrupt entry of the intruder. He sprang from the
chair with a great effort, and then, unable to sustain himself, sunk
fainting on the floor.

"Oh, you have killed my father--you have killed my father! Who are you, and
what do you want, that you dare thrust yourself upon him in this manner?"
said she, stooping to assist in raising him; "cannot you see he is entirely
unfit for any business?"

Mr. Stevens was replaced in his chair, and water thrown in his face to
facilitate his recovery.

Meanwhile, McCloskey had poured himself out a glass of brandy and water,
which he stood sipping as coolly as if everything in the apartment was in a
state of the most perfect composure. The singular terror of her father, and
the boldness and assurance of the intruder, were to Miss Stevens something
inexplicable--she stood looking from one to the other, as though seeking an
explanation, and on observing symptoms of a return to consciousness on the
part of her parent, she turned to McCloskey, and said, appealingly: "You
see how your presence has agitated my father. Pray let me conjure you--go.
Be your errand what it may, I promise you it shall have the earliest
attention. Or," said she, "tell me what it is; perhaps I can see to it--I
attend a great deal to father's business. Pray tell me!"

"No, no!" exclaimed the old man, who had caught the last few words of his
daughter. "No, no--not a syllable! Here, I'm well--I'm well enough. I'll
attend to you. There, there--that will do," he continued, addressing the
servant; "leave the room. And you," he added, turning to his daughter, "do
you go too. I am much better now, and can talk to him. Go! go!" he cried,
impatiently, as he saw evidences of a disposition to linger, on her part;
"if I want you I'll ring. Go!--this person won't stay long."

"Not if I get what I came for, miss," said McCloskey, insolently;
"otherwise, there is no knowing how long I may stay." With a look of
apprehension, Lizzie quitted the room, and the murderer and his accomplice
were alone together.

Mr. Stevens reached across the table, drew the liquor towards him, and
recklessly pouring out a large quantity, drained the glass to the
bottom--this seemed to nerve him up and give him courage, for he turned to
McCloskey and said, with a much bolder air than he had yet shown in
addressing him, "So, you're back again, villain! are you? I thought and
hoped you were dead;" and he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes
as if to shut out some horrid spectre.

"I've been divilish near it, squire, but Providence has preserved me, ye
see--jist to be a comfort to ye in yer old age. I've been shipwrecked,
blown up in steamboats, and I've had favers and choleray and the divil
alone knows what--but I've been marcifully presarved to ye, and hope ye'll
see a good dale of me this many years to come."

Mr. Stevens glared at him fiercely for a few seconds, and then rejoined,
"You promised me solemnly, five years ago, that you would never trouble me
again, and I gave you money enough to have kept you in comfort--ay,
luxury--for the remainder of your life. Where is it all now?"

"That's more than I can tell you, squire. I only know how it comes. I don't
trouble myself how it goes--that's your look out. If ye are anxious on that
score you'd better hire a bookkeeper for me--he shall send yer honour a
quarterly account, and then it won't come on ye so sudden when it's all out
another time."

"Insolent!" muttered Mr. Stevens.

McCloskey gave Mr. Stevens an impudent look, but beyond that took no
farther notice of his remark, but proceeded with the utmost coolness to
pour out another glass of brandy--after which he drew his chair closer to
the grate, and placed his dirty feet upon the mantelpiece in close
proximity to an alabaster clock.

"You make yourself very much at home," said Stevens, indignantly.

"Why shouldn't I?" answered his tormentor, in a tone of the most perfect
good humour. "Why shouldn't I--in the house of an ould acquaintance and
particular friend--just the place to feel at home, eh, Stevens?" then
folding his arms and tilting back his chair, he asked, coolly: "You haven't
a cigar, have ye?"

"No," replied Stevens, surlily; "and if I had, you should not have it. Your
insolence is unbearable; you appear," continued he, with some show of
dignity, "to have forgotten who I am, and who you are."

"Ye're mistaken there, squire. Divil a bit have I. I'm McCloskey, and you
are Slippery George--an animal that's known over the 'varsal world as a
Philadelphia lawyer--a man that's chated his hundreds, and if he lives long
enough, he'll chate as many more, savin' his friend Mr. McCloskey, and him
he'll not be afther chating, because he won't be able to get a chance,
although he'd like to if he could--divil a doubt of that."

"It's false--I never tried to cheat you," rejoined Stevens, courageously,
for the liquor was beginning to have a very inspiriting effect. "It's a
lie--I paid you all I agreed upon, and more besides; but you are like a
leech--never satisfied. You have had from me altogether nearly twenty
thousand dollars, and you'll not get much more--now, mind I tell you."

"The divil I won't," rejoined he, angrily; "that is yet to be seen. How
would you like to make yer appearance at court some fine morning, on the
charge of murther, eh?" Mr. Stevens gave a perceptible shudder, and looked
round, whereupon McCloskey said, with a malevolent grin, "Ye see I don't
stick at words, squire; I call things by their names."

"So I perceive," answered Stevens. "You were not so bold once."

"Ha, ha!" laughed McCloskey. "I know _that_ as well as you--then _I_ was
under the thumb--that was before we were sailing in the one boat; now ye
see, squire, the boot is on the other leg." Mr. Stevens remained quiet
for a few moments, whilst his ragged visitor continued to leisurely sip his
brandy and contemplate the soles of his boots as they were reflected in the
mirror above--they were a sorry pair of boots, and looked as if there would
soon be a general outbreak of his toes--so thin and dilapidated did the
soles appear.

"Look at thim boots, and me suit ginerally, and see if your conscience
won't accuse ye of ingratitude to the man who made yer fortune--or rather
lets ye keep it, now ye have it. Isn't it a shame now for me, the best
friend you've got in the world, to be tramping the streets widdout a penny
in his pocket, and ye livin' in clover, with gold pieces as plenty as
blackberries. It don't look right, squire, and mustn't go on any longer."

"What do you want--whatever will satisfy you?" asked Stevens. "If I give
you ever so much now, what guarantee have I that you'll not return in a
month or so, and want as much more?"

"I'll pledge ye me honour," said McCloskey, grandly.

"Your honour!" rejoined Stevens, "that is no security."

"Security or no security," said McCloskey, impatiently, "you'll have to
give me the money--it's not a bit of use now this disputin, bekase ye see
I'm bound to have it, and ye are wise enough to know ye'd better give it to
me. What if ye have give me thousands upon thousands," continued he, his
former good-humoured expression entirely vanishing; "it's nothing more than
you ought to do for keeping yer secrets for ye--and as long as ye have
money, ye may expect to share it with me: so make me out a good heavy
cheque, and say no more about it."

"What do you call a heavy cheque?" asked Stevens, in a despairing tone.

"Five or six thousand," coolly answered his visitor.

"Five or six thousand!" echoed Mr. Stevens, "it is impossible."

"It had better not be," said McCloskey, looking angry; "it had better not
be--I'm determined not to be leading a beggar's life, and you to be a
rolling in wealth."

"I can't give it, and won't give it--if it must come to that," answered
Stevens, desperately. "It is you that have the fortune--I am only your
banker at this rate. I can't give it to you--I haven't got that much
money."

"You must find it then, and pretty quick at that," said McCloskey. "I'm not
to be fooled with--I came here for money, and I must and will have it."

"I am willing to do what is reasonable," rejoined Mr. Stevens, in a more
subdued tone. "You talk of thousands as most men do of hundreds. I really
haven't got it."

"Oh, bother such stuff as that," interrupted McCloskey, incredulously. "I
don't believe a word of it--I've asked them that know, and every one says
you've made a mint of money by speculation--that since ye sold out in the
South and came here to live, there's no end to the money ye've made; so you
see it don't do to be making a poor mouth to me. I've come here for a check
for five thousand dollars, and shan't go away without it," concluded he, in
a loud and threatening tone.

During this conversation, Lizzie Stevens had been standing at the door,
momentarily expecting a recall to the apartment. She heard the low rumble
of their voices, but could not distinguish words. At length, hearing
McCloskey's raised to a higher key, she could no longer restrain her
impatience, and gently opening the door, looked into the room. Both their
faces were turned in the opposite direction, so that neither noticed the
gentle intrusion of Lizzie, who, fearing to leave her father longer alone,
ventured into the apartment.

"You need not stand looking at me in that threatening manner. You may do as
you please--go tell what you like; but remember, when I fall, so do you; I
have not forgotten that affair in Philadelphia from which I saved
you--don't place me in a situation that will compel me to recur to it to
your disadvantage." "Ah, don't trouble yerself about that, squire; I
don't--that is entirely off my mind; for now Whitticar is dead, where is
yer witnesses?"

"Whitticar dead!" repeated Stevens.

"Yes; and what's more, he's buried--so he's safe enough, squire; and I
shouldn't be at all surprised if you'd be glad to have me gone too."

"I would to God you had been, before I put myself in your power."

"'Twas your own hastiness. When it came to the pinch, I wasn't equal to the
job, so ye couldn't wait for another time, but out with yer pistol, and
does it yerself." The wretched man shuddered and covered his face, as
McCloskey coolly recounted his murder of Mr. Garie, every word of which was
too true to be denied.

"And haven't I suffered," said he, shaking his bald head mournfully;
"haven't I suffered--look at my grey hairs and half-palsied frame, decrepit
before I'm old--sinking into the tomb with a weight of guilt and sin upon
me that will crush me down to the lowest depth of hell. Think you," he
continued, "that because I am surrounded with all that money can buy, that
I am happy, or ever shall be, with this secret gnawing at my heart; every
piece of gold I count out, I see his hands outstretched over it, and hear
him whisper 'Mine!' He gives me no peace night or day; he is always by me;
I have no rest. And you must come, adding to my torture, and striving to
tear from me that for which I bartered conscience, peace, soul, everything
that would make life desirable. If there is mercy in you, leave me with
what I give you, and come back no more. Life has so little to offer, that
rather than bear this continued torment and apprehension I daily suffer, I
will cut my throat, and then _your_ game is over."

Lizzie Stevens stood rooted to the spot whilst her father made the
confession that was wrung from him by the agony of the moment.

"Well, well!" said McCloskey, somewhat startled and alarmed at Stevens's
threat of self-destruction--"well, I'll come down a thousand--make it
four."

"That I'll do," answered the old man, tremblingly; and reaching over, he
drew towards him the cheque-book. After writing the order for the sum, he
was placing it in the hand of McCloskey, when, hearing a faint moan, he
looked towards the door, and saw his daughter fall fainting to the ground.



CHAPTER XXXI.

The Thorn rankles.


We left the quiet town of Sudbury snow-clad and sparkling in all the glory
of a frosty moonlight night; we now return to it, and discover it decked
out in its bravest summer garniture. A short distance above the hill upon
which it is built, the water of the river that glides along its base may be
seen springing over the low dam that obstructs its passage, sparkling,
glistening, dancing in the sunlight, as it falls splashing on the stones
below; and then, as though subdued by the fall and crash, it comes
murmuring on, stopping now and then to whirl and eddy round some rock or
protruding stump, and at last glides gently under the arch of the bridge,
seemingly to pause beneath its shadow and ponder upon its recent tumble
from the heights above. Seated here and there upon the bridge are groups of
boys, rod in hand, endeavouring, with the most delicious-looking and
persuasive of baits, to inveigle finny innocents from the cool depths
below.

The windows of the mills are all thrown open, and now and then the voices
of some operatives, singing at their work, steal forth in company with the
whir and hum of the spindles, and mingle with the splash of the waterfall;
and the united voices of nature, industry, and man, harmonize their
swelling tones, or go floating upward on the soft July air. The houses upon
the hill-side seem to be endeavouring to extricate themselves from bowers
of full-leafed trees; and with their white fronts, relieved by the light
green blinds, look cool and inviting in the distance. High above them all,
as though looking down in pride upon the rest, stands the Academy, ennobled
in the course of years by the addition of extensive wings and a row of
stately pillars. On the whole, the town looked charmingly peaceful and
attractive, and appeared just the quiet nook that a weary worker in cities
would select as a place of retirement after a busy round of toils or
pleasure.

There were little knots of idlers gathered about the railroad station, as
there always is in quiet towns--not that they expect any one; but that the
arrival and departure of the train is one of the events of the day, and
those who have nothing else particular to accomplish feel constrained to be
on hand to witness it. Every now and then one of them would look down the
line and wonder why the cars were not in sight.

Amongst those seemingly the most impatient was Miss Ada Bell, who looked
but little older than when she won the heart of the orphan Clarence, years
before, by that kind kiss upon his childish brow. It was hers still--she
bound it to her by long years of affectionate care, almost equalling in its
sacrificing tenderness that which a mother would have bestowed upon her
only child. Clarence, her adopted son, had written to her, that he was
wretched, heart-sore, and ill, and longed to come to her, his almost
mother, for sympathy, advice, and comfort: so she, with yearning heart, was
there to meet him.

At last the faint scream of the steam-whistle was heard, and soon the
lumbering locomotive came puffing and snorting on its iron path, dashing on
as though it could never stop, and making the surrounding hills echo with
the unearthly scream of its startling whistle, and arousing to desperation
every dog in the quiet little town. At last it stopped, and stood giving
short and impatient snorts and hisses, whilst the passengers were
alighting.

Clarence stepped languidly out, and was soon in the embrace of Miss Ada.

"My dear boy, how thin and pale you look!" she exclaimed; "come, get into
the carriage; never mind your baggage, George will look after that; your
hands are hot--very hot, you must be feverish."

"Yes, Aunt Ada," for so he had insisted on his calling her "I am ill--sick
in heart, mind, and everything. Cut up the horses," said he, with slight
impatience of manner; "let us get home quickly. When I get in the old
parlour, and let you bathe my head as you used to, I am sure I shall feel
better. I am almost exhausted from fatigue and heat."

"Very well then, dear, don't talk now," she replied, not in the least
noticing his impatience of manner; "when you are rested, and have had your
tea, will be time enough."

They were soon in the old house, and Clarence looked round with a smile of
pleasure on the room where he had spent so many happy hours. Good Aunt Ada
would not let him talk, but compelled him to remain quiet until he had
rested himself, and eaten his evening meal.

He had altered considerably in the lapse of years, there was but little
left to remind one of the slight, melancholy-looking boy, that once stood a
heavy-hearted little stranger in the same room, in days gone by. His face
was without a particle of red to relieve its uniform paleness; his eyes,
large, dark, and languishing, were half hidden by unusually long lashes;
his forehead broad, and surmounted with clustering raven hair; a glossy
moustache covered his lip, and softened down its fulness; on the whole, he
was strikingly handsome, and none would pass him without a second look.

Tea over, Miss Ada insisted that he should lie down upon the sofa again,
whilst she, sat by and bathed his head. "Have you seen your sister lately?"
she asked.

"No, Aunt Ada," he answered, hesitatingly, whilst a look of annoyance
darkened his face for a moment; "I have not been to visit her since last
fall--almost a year."

"Oh! Clarence, how can you remain so long away?" said she, reproachfully.

"Well, I can't go there with any comfort or pleasure," he answered,
apologetically; "I can't go there; each year as I visit the place, their
ways seem more strange and irksome to me. Whilst enjoying her company, I
must of course come in familiar contact with those by whom she is
surrounded. Sustaining the position that I do--passing as I am for a white
man--I am obliged to be very circumspect, and have often been compelled to
give her pain by avoiding many of her dearest friends when I have
encountered them in public places, because of their complexion. I feel mean
and cowardly whilst I'm doing it; but it is necessary--I can't be white and
 at the same time; the two don't mingle, and I must consequently be
one or the other. My education, habits, and ideas, all unfit me for
associating with the latter; and I live in constant dread that something
may occur to bring me out with the former. I don't avoid <DW52> people,
because I esteem them my inferiors in refinement, education, or
intelligence; but because they are subjected to degradations that I shall
be compelled to share by too freely associating with them."

"It is a pity," continued he, with a sigh, "that I was not suffered to grow
up with them, then I should have learnt to bear their burthens, and in the
course of time might have walked over my path of life, bearing the load
almost unconsciously. Now it would crush me, I know. It was a great mistake
to place me in my present false position," concluded he, bitterly; "it has
cursed me. Only a day ago I had a letter from Em, reproaching me for my
coldness; yet, God help me! What am I to do!"

Miss Ada looked at him sorrowfully, and continued smoothing down his hair,
and inundating his temples with Cologne; at last she ventured to inquire,
"How do matters progress with you and Miss Bates? Clary, you have lost your
heart there!"

"Too true," he replied, hurriedly; "and what is more--little Birdie (I call
her little Birdie) has lost hers too. Aunt Ada, we are engaged!"

"With her parents' consent?" she asked.

"Yes, with her parents' consent; we are to be married in the coming
winter."

"Then they know _all_, of course--they know you are ?" observed
she.

"They know all!" cried he, starting up. "_Who_ said they did--_who_ told
them?--tell me that, I say! Who has _dared_ to tell them I am a <DW52>
man?"

"Hush, Clarence, hush!" replied she, attempting to soothe him. "I do not
know that any one has informed them; I only inferred so from your saying
you were engaged. I thought _you_ had informed them yourself. Don't you
remember you wrote that you should?--and I took it for granted that you
had."

"Oh! yes, yes; so I did! I fully intended to, but found myself too great a
coward. _I dare not_--I cannot risk losing her. I am fearful that if she
knew it she would throw me off for ever."

"Perhaps not, Clarence--if she loves you as she should; and even if she
did, would it not be better that she should know it now, than have it
discovered afterwards, and you both be rendered miserable for life."

"No, no, Aunt Ada--I cannot tell her! It must remain a secret until after
our marriage; then, if they find it out, it will be to their interest to
smooth the matter over, and keep quiet about it."

"Clary, Clary--that is _not_ honourable!"

"I know it--but how can I help it? Once or twice I thought of telling her,
but my heart always failed me at the critical moment. It would kill me to
lose her. Oh! I love her, Aunt Ada," said he, passionately--"love her with
all the energy and strength of my father's race, and all the doating
tenderness of my mother's. I could have told her long ago, before my love
had grown to its present towering strength, but craft set a seal upon my
lips, and bid me be silent until her heart was fully mine, and then nothing
could part us; yet now even, when sure of her affections, the dread that
her love would not stand the test, compels me to shrink more than ever from
the disclosure."

"But, Clarence, you are not acting generously; I know your conscience does
not approve your actions."

"Don't I know that?" he answered, almost fiercely; "yet I dare not tell--I
must shut this secret in my bosom, where it gnaws, gnaws, gnaws, until it
has almost eaten my heart away. Oh, I've thought of that, time and again;
it has kept me awake night after night, it haunts me at all hours; it is
breaking down my health and strength--wearing my very life out of me; no
escaped galley-slave ever felt more than I do, or lived in more constant
fear of detection: and yet I must nourish this tormenting secret, and keep
it growing in my breast until it has crowded out every honourable and manly
feeling; and then, perhaps, after all my sufferings and sacrifice of
candour and truth, out it will come at last, when I least expect or think
of it."

Aunt Ada could not help weeping, and exclaimed, commiseratingly, "My poor,
poor boy," as he strode up and down the room.

"The whole family, except her, seem to have the deepest contempt for
<DW52> people; they are constantly making them a subject of bitter jests;
they appear to have no more feeling or regard for them than if they were
brutes--and I," continued he, "I, miserable, contemptible, false-hearted
knave, as I am, I--I--yes, I join them in their heartless jests, and wonder
all the while my mother does not rise from her grave and _curse_ me as I
speak!"

"Oh! Clarence, Clarence, my dear child!" cried the terrified Aunt Ada, "you
talk deliriously; you have brooded over this until it has almost made you
crazy. Come here--sit down." And seizing him by the arm, she drew him on
the sofa beside her, and began to bathe his hot head with the Cologne
again.

"Let me walk, Aunt Ada," said he after a few moments,--"let me walk, I feel
better whilst I am moving; I can't bear to be quiet." And forthwith he
commenced striding up and down the room again with nervous and hurried
steps. After a few moments he burst out again----

"It seems as if fresh annoyances and complications beset me every day. Em
writes me that she is engaged. I was in hopes, that, after I had married, I
could persuade her to come and live with me, and so gradually break off her
connection with, <DW52> people; but that hope is extinguished now: she
is engaged to a <DW52> man."

Aunt Ada could see no remedy for this new difficulty, and could only say,
"Indeed!"

"I thought something of the kind would occur when I was last at home, and
spoke to her on the subject, but she evaded giving me any definite answer;
I think she was afraid to tell me--she has written, asking my consent."

"And will you give it?" asked Aunt Ada.

"It will matter but little if I don't; Em has a will of her own, and I have
no means of coercing her; besides, I have no reasonable objection to urge:
it would be folly in me to oppose it, simply because he is a <DW52>
man--for, what am I myself? The only difference is, that his identity with
<DW52> people is no secret, and he is not ashamed of it; whilst I conceal
my origin, and live in constant dread that some one may find it out." When
Clarence had finished, he continued to walk up and down the room, looking
very careworn and gloomy.

Miss Bell remained on the sofa, thoughtfully regarding him. At last, she
rose up and took his hand in hers, as she used to when he was a boy, and
walking beside him, said, "The more I reflect upon it, the more necessary I
regard it that you should tell this girl and her parents your real position
before you marry her. Throw away concealment, make a clean breast of it!
you may not be rejected when they find her heart is so deeply interested.
If you marry her with this secret hanging over you, it will embitter your
life, make you reserved, suspicious, and consequently ill-tempered, and
destroy all your domestic happiness. Let me persuade you, tell them ere it
be too late. Suppose it reached them through some other source, what would
they then think of you?"

"Who else would tell them? Who else knows it? You, you," said he
suspiciously--"_you_ would not betray me! I thought you loved me, Aunt
Ada."

"Clarence, my dear boy," she rejoined, apparently hurt by his hasty and
accusing tone, "you _will_ mistake me--I have no such intention. If they
are never to learn it except through _me_, your secret is perfectly safe.
Yet I must tell you that I feel and think that the true way to promote her
happiness and your own, is for you to disclose to them your real position,
and throw yourself upon their generosity for the result."

Clarence pondered for a long time over Miss Bell's advice, which she again
and again repeated, placing it each time before him in a stronger light,
until, at last, she extracted from him a promise that he would do it. "I
know you are right, Aunt Ada," said he; "I am convinced of that--it is a
question of courage with me. I know it would be more honourable for me to
tell her now. I'll try to do it--I will make an effort, and summon up the
courage necessary--God be my helper!"

"That's a dear boy!" she exclaimed, kissing him affectionately; "I know you
will feel happier when it is all over; and even if she should break her
engagement, you will be infinitely better off than if it was fulfilled and
your secret subsequently discovered. Come, now," she concluded, "I am going
to exert my old authority, and send you to bed; tomorrow, perhaps, you may
see this in a more hopeful light."

Two days after this, Clarence was again in New York, amid the heat and dust
of that crowded, bustling city. Soon, after his arrival, he dressed
himself, and started for the mansion of Mr. Bates, trembling as he went,
for the result of the communication he was about to make.

Once on the way he paused, for the thought had occurred to him that he
would write to them; then reproaching himself for his weakness and
timidity, he started on again with renewed determination.

"I'll see her myself," he soliloquized. "I'll tell little Birdie all, and
know my fate from her own lips. If I must give her up, I'll know the worst
from her."

When Clarence was admitted, he would not permit himself to be announced,
but walked tiptoe upstairs and gently opening the drawing-room door,
entered the room. Standing by the piano, turning over the leaves of some
music, and merrily humming an air, was a young girl of extremely _petite_
and delicate form. Her complexion was strikingly fair; and the rich curls
of dark auburn that fell in clusters on her shoulders, made it still more
dazzling by the contrast presented. Her eyes were grey, inclining to black;
her features small, and not over-remarkable for their symmetry, yet by no
means disproportionate. There was the sweetest of dimples on her small
round chin, and her throat white and clear as the finest marble. The
expression of her face was extremely childlike; she seemed more like a
schoolgirl than a young woman of eighteen on the eve of marriage. There was
something deliriously airy and fairylike in her motions, and as she
slightly moved her feet in time to the music she was humming, her thin blue
dress floated about her, and undulated in harmony with her graceful
motions.

After gazing at her for a few moments, Clarence called gently, "Little
Birdie." She gave a timid joyous little cry of surprise and pleasure, and
fluttered into his arms.

"Oh, Clary, love, how you startled me! I did not dream there was any one in
the room. It was so naughty in you," said she, childishly, as he pushed
back the curls from her face and kissed her. "When did you arrive?"

"Only an hour ago," he answered.

"And you came here at once? Ah, that was so lover-like and kind," she
rejoined, smiling.

"You look like a sylph to-night, Anne," said he, as she danced about him.
"Ah," he continued, after regarding her for a few seconds with a look of
intense admiration, "you want to rivet my chains the tighter,--you look
most bewitching. Why are you so much dressed to-night?--jewels, sash, and
satin slippers," he continued; "are you going out?"

"No, Clary," she answered. "I was to have gone to the theatre; but just at
the last moment I decided not to. A singular desire to stay at home came
over me suddenly. I had an instinctive feeling that I should lose some
greater enjoyment if I went; so I remained at home; and here, love, are
you. But what is the matter? you look sad and weary."

"I am a little fatigued," said he, seating himself and holding her hand in
his: "a little weary; but that will soon wear off; and as for the sadness,"
concluded he, with a forced smile, "that _must_ depart now that I am with
you, Little Birdie."

"I feel relieved that you have returned safe and well," said she, looking
up into his face from her seat beside him; "for, Clary, love, I had such a
frightful dream, such a singular dream about you. I have endeavoured to
shake it out of my foolish little head; but it won't go, Clary,--I can't
get rid of it. It occurred after you left us at Saratoga. Oh, it was
nothing though," said she, laughing and shaking her curls,--"nothing; and
now you are safely returned, I shall not think of it again. Tell me what
you have seen since you went away; and how is that dear Aunt Ada of yours
you talk so much about?"

"Oh, she is quite well," answered he; "but tell, Anne, tell me about that
dream. What was it, Birdie?--come tell me."

"I don't care to," she answered, with a slight shudder,--"I don't want to,
love."

"Yes, yes,--do, sweet," importuned he; "I want to hear it."

"Then if I must," said she, "I will. I dreamed that you and I were walking
on a road together, and 'twas such a beautiful road, with flowers and
fruit, and lovely cottages on either side. I thought you held my hand; I
felt it just as plain as I clasp yours now. Presently a rough ugly man
overtook us, and bid you let me go; and that you refused, and held me all
the tighter. Then he gave you a diabolical look, and touched you on the
face, and you broke out in loathsome black spots, and screamed in such
agony and frightened me so, that I awoke all in a shiver of terror, and did
not get over it all the next day."

Clarence clutched her hand tighter as she finished, so tight indeed, that
she gave a little scream of pain and looked frightened at him. "What is the
matter?" she inquired; "your hand is like ice, and you are paler than ever.
You haven't let that trifling dream affect you so? It is nothing."

"I am superstitious in regard to dreams," said Clarence, wiping the
perspiration from his forehead. "Go," he asked, faintly, "play me an air,
love,--something quick and lively to dispel this. I wish you had not told
me."

"But you begged me to," said she, pouting, as she took her seat at the
instrument.

"How ominous," muttered he,--"became covered with black spots; that is a
foreshadowing. How can I tell her," he thought. "It seems like wilfully
destroying my own happiness." And he sat struggling with himself to obtain
the necessary courage to fulfil the purpose of his visit, and became so
deeply engrossed with his own reflections as to scarcely even hear the
sound of the instrument.

"It is too bad," she cried, as she ceased playing: "here I have performed
some of your favourite airs, and that too without eliciting a word of
commendation. You are inexpressibly dull to-night; nothing seems to enliven
you. What is the matter?"

"Oh," rejoined he, abstractedly, "am I? I was not aware of it."

"Yes, you are," said Little Birdie, pettishly; "nothing seems to engage
your attention." And, skipping off to the table, she took up the newspaper,
and exclaimed,--"Let me read you something very curious."

"No, no, Anne dear," interrupted he; "sit here by me. I want to say
something serious to you--something of moment to us both."

"Then it's something very grave and dull, I know," she remarked; "for that
is the way people always begin. Now I don't want to hear anything serious
to-night; I want to be merry. You _look_ serious enough; and if you begin
to talk seriously you'll be perfectly unbearable. So you must hear what I
am going to read to you first." And the little tyrant put her finger on his
lip, and looked so bewitching, that he could not refuse her. And the
important secret hung on his lips, but was not spoken.

"Listen," said she, spreading out the paper before her and running her tiny
finger down the column. "Ah, I have it," she exclaimed at last, and
began:--

"'We learn from unimpeachable authority that the Hon. ---- ----, who
represents a district of our city in the State legislature, was yesterday
united to the Quateroon daughter of the late Gustave Almont. She is said to
be possessed of a large fortune, inherited from her father; and they
purpose going to France to reside,--a sensible determination; as, after
such a _mesalliance_, the honourable gentleman can no longer expect to
retain his former social position in our midst.--_New Orleans Watchman_.'"

"Isn't it singular," she remarked, "that a man in his position should make
such a choice?"

"He loved her, no doubt," suggested Clarence; "and she was almost white."

"How could he love her?" asked she, wonderingly. "Love a <DW52> woman! I
cannot conceive it possible," said she, with a look of disgust; "there is
something strange and unnatural about it."

"No, no," he rejoined, hurriedly, "it was love, Anne,--pure love; it is not
impossible. I--I--" "am ," he would have said; but he paused and
looked full in her lovely face. He could not tell her,--the words slunk
back into his coward heart unspoken.

She stared at him in wonder and perplexity, and exclaimed,--"Dear Clarence,
how strangely you act! I am afraid you are not well. Your brow is hot,"
said she, laying her hand on his forehead; "you have been travelling too
much for your strength."

"It is not that," he replied. "I feel a sense of suffocation, as if all the
blood was rushing to my throat. Let me get the air." And he rose and walked
to the window. Anne hastened and brought him a glass of water, of which he
drank a little, and then declared himself better.

After this, he stood for a long time with her clasped in his arms; then
giving her one or two passionate kisses, he strained her closer to him and
abruptly left the house, leaving Little Birdie startled and alarmed by his
strange behaviour.



CHAPTER XXXII.

Dear Old Ess again.


Let us visit once more the room from which Mr. Walters and his friends made
so brave a defence. There is but little in its present appearance to remind
one of that eventful night,--no reminiscences of that desperate attack,
save the bullet-hole in the ceiling, which Mr. Walters declares shall
remain unfilled as an evidence of the marked attention he has received at
the hands of his fellow-citizens.

There are several noticeable additions to the furniture of the apartment;
amongst them an elegantly-carved work-stand, upon which some unfinished
articles of children's apparel are lying; a capacious rocking-chair, and
grand piano.

Then opposite to the portrait of Toussaint is suspended another picture,
which no doubt holds a higher position in the regard of the owner of the
mansion than the African warrior aforesaid. It is a likeness of the lady
who is sitting at the window,--Mrs. Esther Walters, _nee_ Ellis. The brown
baby in the picture is the little girl at her side,--the elder sister of
the other brown baby who is doing its best to pull from its mother's lap
the doll's dress upon which she is sewing. Yes, that is "dear old Ess," as
Charlie calls her yet, though why he will persist in applying the adjective
we are at a loss to determine.

Esther looks anything but old--a trifle matronly, we admit--but old we
emphatically say she is not; her hair is parted plainly, and the tiniest of
all tiny caps sits at the back of her head, looking as if it felt it had no
business on such raven black hair, and ought to be ignominiously dragged
off without one word of apology. The face and form are much more round and
full, and the old placid expression has been undisturbed in the lapse of
years.

The complexion of the two children was a sort of compromise between the
complexions of their parents--chubby-faced, chestnut-,
curly-headed, rollicking little pests, who would never be quiet, and whose
little black buttons of eyes were always peering into something, and whose
little plugs of fingers would, in spite of every precaution to prevent, be
diving into mother's work-box, and various other highly inconvenient and
inappropriate places.

"There!" said Esther, putting the last stitch into a doll she had been
manufacturing; "now, take sister, and go away and play." But little sister,
it appeared, did not wish to be taken, and she made the best of her way
off, holding on by the chairs, and tottering over the great gulfs between
them, until she succeeded in reaching the music-stand, where she paused for
a while before beginning to destroy the music. Just at this critical
juncture a young lady entered the room, and held up her hands in horror,
and baby hastened off as fast as her toddling limbs could carry her, and
buried her face in her mother's lap in great consternation.

Emily Garie made two or three slight feints of an endeavour to catch her,
and then sat down by the little one's mother, and gave a deep sigh.

"Have you answered your brother's letter?" asked Esther.

"Yes, I have," she replied; "here it is,"--and she laid the letter in
Esther's lap. Baby made a desperate effort to obtain it, but suffered a
signal defeat, and her mother opened it, and read--


"DEAR BROTHER,--I read your chilling letter with deep
sorrow. I cannot say that it surprised me; it is what I have
anticipated during the many months that I have been silent
on the subject of my marriage. Yet, when I read it, I could
not but feel a pang to which heretofore I have been a stranger.
Clarence, you know I love you, and should not make the
sacrifice you demand a test of my regard. True, I cannot say
(and most heartily I regret it) that there exists between us the
same extravagant fondness we cherished as children--but
that is no fault of mine. Did you not return to me, each
year, colder and colder--more distant and unbrotherly--until
you drove back to their source the gushing streams of
a sister's love that flowed so strongly towards you? You ask
me to resign Charles Ellis and come to you. What can you
offer me in exchange for his true, manly affection?--to what
purpose drive from my heart a love that has been my only
solace, only consolation, for your waning regard! We have
grown up together--he has been warm and kind, when you
were cold and indifferent--and now that he claims the reward
of long years of tender regard, and my own heart is conscious
that he deserves it, you would step between us, and forbid
me yield the recompense that it will be my pride and delight
to bestow. It grieves me to write it; yet I must, Clary--for
between brother and sister there is no need of concealments;
and particularly at such a time should everything be open,
clear, explicit. Do not think I wish to reproach you. What
you are, Clarence, your false position and unfortunate education
have made you. I write it with pain--your demand
seems extremely selfish. I fear it is not of _me_ but of _yourself_
you are thinking, when you ask me to sever, at once and for
ever, my connection with a people who, you say, can only
degrade me. Yet how much happier am I, sharing their
degradation, than you appear to be! Is it regard for me
that induces the desire that I should share the life of constant
dread that I cannot but feel you endure--or do you fear that
my present connections will interfere with your own plans for
the future?

"Even did I grant it was my happiness alone you had in
view, my objections would be equally strong. I could not
forego the claims of early friendship, and estrange myself
from those who have endeared themselves to me by long
years of care--nor pass coldly and unrecognizingly by playmates
and acquaintances, because their complexions were a few
shades darker than my own. This I could never do--to me
it seems ungrateful: yet I would not reproach you because
you can--for the circumstances by which you have been surrounded
have conspired to produce that result--and I presume
you regard such conduct as necessary to sustain you in your
present position. From the tenor of your letter I should
judge that you entertained some fear that I might compromise
you with your future bride, and intimate that _my_ choice may
deprive you of _yours_. Surely that need not be. _She_ need not
even know of my existence. Do not entertain a fear that I,
or my future husband, will ever interfere with your happiness
by thrusting ourselves upon you, or endanger your social
position by proclaiming our relationship. Our paths lie so
widely apart that they need never cross. You walk on the
side of the oppressor--I, thank God, am with the oppressed.

"I am happy--more happy, I am sure, than you could
make me, even by surrounding me with the glittering lights
that shine upon your path, and which, alas! may one day go
suddenly out, and leave you wearily groping in the darkness.
I trust, dear brother, my words may not prove a prophecy;
yet, should they be, trust me, Clarence, you may come back
again, and a sister's heart will receive you none the less
warmly that you selfishly desired her to sacrifice the happiness
of a lifetime to you. I shall marry Charles Ellis. I ask
you to come and see us united--I shall not reproach you if
you do not; yet I shall feel strange without a single relative
to kiss or bless me in that most eventful hour of a woman's
life. God bless you, Clary! I trust your union may be as
happy as I anticipate my own will be--and, if it is not, it will
not be because it has lacked the earnest prayers of your
neglected but still loving sister."


"Esther, I thought I was too cold in that--tell me, do you think so?"

"No, dear, not at all; I think it a most affectionate reply to a cold,
selfish letter."

"Oh, I'm glad to hear you say that. I can trust better to your tenderness
of others' feelings than to my own heart. I felt strongly, Esther, and was
fearful that it might be too harsh or reproachful. I was anxious lest my
feelings should be too strikingly displayed; yet it was better to be
explicit--don't you think so?"

"Undoubtedly," answered Esther; and handing back the letter, she took up
baby, and seated herself in the rocking-chair.

Now baby had a prejudice against caps, inveterate and unconquerable; and
grandmamma, nurse, and Esther were compelled to bear the brunt of her
antipathies. We have before said that Esther's cap _looked_ as though it
felt itself in an inappropriate position--that it had got on the head of
the wrong individual--and baby, no doubt in deference to the cap's
feelings, tore it off, and threw it in the half-open piano, from whence it
was extricated with great detriment to the delicate lace.

Emily took a seat near the window, and drawing her work-table towards her,
raised the lid. This presenting another opening for baby, she slid down
from her mother's lap, and hastened towards her. She just arrived in time
to see it safely closed, and toddled back to her mother, as happy as if she
had succeeded in running riot over its contents, and scattering them all
over the floor.

Emily kept looking down the street, as though in anxious expectation of
somebody; and whilst she stood there, there was an opportunity of observing
how little she had changed in the length of years. She is little Em
magnified, with a trifle less of the child in her face. Her hair has a
slight kink, is a little more wavy than is customary in persons of entire
white blood; but in no other way is her extraction perceptible, only the
initiated, searching for evidences of African blood, would at all notice
this slight peculiarity.

Her expectation was no doubt about to be gratified, for a smile broke over
her face, as she left the window and skipped downstairs; when she
re-entered, she was accompanied by her intended husband. There was great
commotion amongst the little folk in consequence of this new arrival. Baby
kicked, and screamed out "Unker Char," and went almost frantic because her
dress became entangled in the buckle of her mamma's belt, and her sister
received a kiss before she could be extricated.

Charlie is greatly altered--he is tall, remarkably athletic, with a large,
handsomely-shaped head, covered with close-cut, woolly hair; high forehead,
heavy eyebrows, large nose, and a mouth of ordinary size, filled with
beautifully white teeth, which he displays at almost every word he speaks;
chin broad, and the whole expression of his face thoughtful and commanding,
yet replete with good humour. No one would call him handsome, yet there was
something decidedly attractive in his general appearance. No one would
recognize him as the Charlie of old, whose escapades had so destroyed the
comfort and harmony of Mrs. Thomas's establishment; and only once, when he
held up the baby, and threatened to let her tear the paper ornaments from
the chandelier, was there a twinkle of the Charlie of old looking out of
his eyes.

"How are mother and father to-day?" asked Esther.

"Oh, both well. I left them only a few minutes ago at the dinner table. I
had to hurry off to go to the office."

"So I perceive," observed Esther, archly, "and of course, coming here,
which is four squares out of your way, will get you there much sooner."

Emily blushed, and said, smilingly, Esther was "a very impertinent person;"
and in this opinion Charlie fully concurred. They then walked to the
window, where they stood, saying, no doubt, to each other those little
tender things which are so profoundly interesting to lovers, and so
exceedingly stupid to every one else. Baby, in high glee, was seated on
Charlie's shoulder, where she could clutch both hands in his hair and pull
until the tears almost started from his eyes.

"Emily and you have been talking a long while, and I presume you have fully
decided on what day you are both to be rescued from your misery, and when I
am to have the exquisite satisfaction of having my house completely turned
upside down for your mutual benefit," said Esther. "I trust it will be as
soon as possible, as we cannot rationally expect that either of you will be
bearable until it is all over, and you find yourselves ordinary mortals
again. Come now, out with it. When is it to be?"

"I say next week," cried Charlie.

"Next week, indeed," hastily rejoined Emily. "I could not think of such a
thing--so abrupt."

"So abrupt," repeated Charlie, with a laugh. "Why, haven't I been courting
you ever since I wore roundabouts, and hasn't everybody been expecting us
to be married every week within the last two years. Fie, Em, it's anything
but abrupt."

Emily blushed still deeper, and looked out of the window, down the street
and up the street, but did not find anything in the prospect at either side
that at all assisted her to come to a decision, so she only became more
confused and stared the harder; at last she ventured to suggest that day
two months.

"This day two months--outrageous!" said Charlie. "Come here, dear old Ess,
and help me to convince this deluded girl of the preposterous manner in
which she is conducting herself."

"I must join her side if you _will_ bring me into the discussion. I think
she is right, Charlie--there is so much to be done: the house to procure
and furnish, and numberless other things that you hasty and absurd men know
nothing about."

By dint of strong persuasion from Charlie, Emily finally consented to abate
two weeks of the time, and they decided that a family council should be
held that evening at Mrs. Ellis's, when the whole arrangements should be
definitely settled.

A note was accordingly despatched by Esther to her mother--that she,
accompanied by Emily and the children, would come to them early in the
afternoon, and that the gentlemen would join them in the evening at
tea-time. Caddy was, of course, completely upset by the intelligence; for,
notwithstanding that she and the maid-of-all-work lived in an almost
perpetual state of house-cleaning, nothing appeared to her to be in order,
and worse than all, there was nothing to eat.

"Nothing to eat!" exclaimed Mrs. Ellis. "Why, my dear child, there are all
manner of preserves, plenty of fresh peaches to cut and sugar down, and a
large pound-cake in the house, and any quantity of bread can be purchased
at the baker's."

"Bread--plain bread!" rejoined Caddy, indignantly, quite astonished at her
mother's modest idea of a tea--and a company-tea at that. "Do you think,
mother, I'd set Mr. Walters down to plain bread, when we always have hot
rolls and short-cake at their house? It is not to be thought of for a
moment: they must have some kind of hot cake, be the consequences what they
may."

Caddy bustled herself about, and hurried up the maid-of-all-work in an
astonishing manner, and before the company arrived had everything prepared,
and looked as trim and neat herself as if she had never touched a
rolling-pin, and did not know what an oven was used for.

Behold them all assembled. Mrs. Ellis at the head of the table with a
grandchild on each side of her, and her cap-strings pinned upon the side
next to baby. Esther sits opposite her husband, who is grown a little grey,
but otherwise is not in the least altered; next to her is her father,
almost buried in a large easy-chair, where he sits shaking his head from
time to time, and smiling vacantly at the children; then come Emily and
Charlie at the foot, and at his other hand Caddy and Kinch--Kinch the
invincible--Kinch the dirty--Kinch the mischievous, now metamorphosed into
a full-blown dandy, with faultless linen, elegant vest, and fashionably-cut
coat. Oh, Kinch, what a change--from the most shabby and careless of all
boys to a consummate exquisite, with heavy gold watch and eye-glass, and
who has been known to dress regularly twice a day!

There was a mighty pouring out of tea at Mrs. Ellis's end of the table,
and baby of course had to be served first with some milk and bread. Between
her and the cat intimate relations seemed to exist, for by their united
efforts the first cap was soon disposed of, and baby was clamouring for the
second before the elder portions of the family had been once served round
with tea.

Charlie and Emily ate little and whispered a great deal; but Kinch, the
voracity of whose appetite had not at all diminished in the length of
years, makes up for their abstinence by devouring the delicious round
short-cakes with astonishing rapidity. He did not pretend to make more than
two bites to a cake, and they slipped away down his throat as if it was a
railroad tunnel and they were a train of cars behind time.

Caddy felt constrained to get up every few moments to look after something,
and to assure herself by personal inspection that the reserved supplies in
the kitchen were not likely to be exhausted. Esther occupied herself in
attending upon her helpless father, and fed him as tenderly and carefully
as if he was one of her babies.

"I left you ladies in council. What was decided?" said Charlie, "don't be
at all bashful as regards speaking before Kinch, for he is in the secret
and has been these two months. Kinch is to be groomsman, and has had three
tailors at work on his suit for a fortnight past. He told me this morning
that if you did not hurry matters up, his wedding coat would be a week out
of fashion before he should get a chance to wear it."

"How delightful--Kinch to be groomsman," said Esther, "that is very kind in
you, Kinch, to assist us to get Charlie off our hands."

"And who is to be bridesmaid?" asked Walters.

"Oh, Caddy of course--I couldn't have any one but Caddy," blushingly
answered Emily.

"That is capital," cried Charlie, giving Kinch a facetious poke, "just the
thing, isn't it, Kinch--it will get her accustomed to these matters. You
remember what you told me this morning, eh, old boy?" he concluded, archly.
 Kinch tried to blush, but being very dark-complexioned, his efforts in
that direction were not at all apparent, so he evidenced his confusion by
cramming a whole short-cake into his mouth, and almost caused a stoppage in
the tunnel; Caddy became excessively red in the face, and was sure they
wanted more cakes.

But Mr. Walters was equally confident they did not, and put his back
against the door and stood there, whilst Mrs. Ellis gravely informed them
that she soon expected to be her own housekeeper, for that she had detected
Caddy and Kinch in a furniture establishment, pricing a chest of drawers
and a wash-stand; and that Kinch had unblushingly told her they had for
some time been engaged to be married, but somehow or other had forgotten to
mention it to her.

This caused a general shout of laughter around the table, in which baby
tumultuously joined, and rattled her spoon against the tea-urn until she
almost deafened them.

This noise frightened Mr. Ellis, who cried, "There they come! there they
come!" and cowered down in his great chair, and looked so exceedingly
terrified, that the noise was hushed instantly, and tears sprang into the
eyes of dear old Ess, who rose and stood by him, and laid his withered face
upon her soft warm bosom, smoothed down the thin grey hair, and held him
close to her throbbing tender heart, until the wild light vanished from his
bleared and sunken eyes, and the vacant childish smile came back on his
thin, wan face again, when she said, "Pray don't laugh so very loud, it
alarms father; he is composed now, pray don't startle him so again."

This sobered them down a little, and they quietly recommenced discussing
the matrimonial arrangements; but they were all in such capital spirits
that an occasional hearty and good-humoured laugh could not be suppressed.

Mr. Walters acted in his usual handsome manner, and facetiously collaring
Charlie, took him into a corner and informed him that he had an empty house
that be wished him to occupy, and that if he ever whispered the word rent,
or offered him any money before he was worth twenty thousand dollars, he
should believe that he wanted to pick a quarrel with him, and should refer
him to a friend, and then pistols and coffee would be the inevitable
result.

Then it came out that Caddy and Kinch had been, courting for some time, if
not with Mrs. Ellis's verbal consent, with at least no objection from that
good lady; for Master Kinch, besides being an exceedingly good-natured
fellow, was very snug in his boots, and had a good many thousand dollars at
his disposal, bequeathed him by his father.

The fates had conspired to make that old gentleman rich. He owned a number
of lots on the outskirts of the city, on which he had been paying taxes a
number of years, and he awoke one fine morning to find them worth a large
sum of money. The city council having determined to cut a street just
beside them, and the property all around being in the hands of wealthy and
fashionable people, his own proved to be exceedingly valuable.

It was a sad day for the old man, as Kinch and his mother insisted that he
should give up business, which he did most reluctantly, and Kinch had to be
incessantly on the watch thereafter, to prevent him from hiring cellars,
and sequestering their old clothes to set up in business again. They were
both gone now, and Kinch was his own master, with a well-secured income of
a thousand dollars a-year, with a prospect of a large increase.

They talked matters over fully, and settled all their arrangements before
the time for parting, and then, finding the baby had scrambled into Mrs.
Ellis's lap and gone fast asleep, and that it was long after ten o'clock,
each departed, taking their several ways for home.



CHAPTER XXXIII.

The Fatal Discovery.


There is great bustle and confusion in the house of Mr. Bates.
Mantua-makers and milliners are coming in at unearthly hours, and
consultations of deep importance are being duly held with maiden aunts and
the young ladies who are to officiate as bridesmaids at the approaching
ceremony. There are daily excursions to drapers' establishments, and
jewellers, and, in fact, so much to be done and thought of, that little
Birdie is in constant confusion, and her dear little curly head is almost
turned topsy-turvy. Twenty times in each day is she called upstairs to
where the sempstresses are at work, to have something tried on or fitted.
Poor little Birdie! she declares she never can stand it: she did not dream
that to be married she would have been subjected to such a world of
trouble, or she would never have consented,--_never_!

And then Clarence, too, comes in every morning, and remains half the day,
teasing her to play, to talk, or sing. Inconsiderate Clarence! when she has
so much on her mind; and when at last he goes, and she begins to felicitate
herself that she is rid of him, back he comes again in the evening, and
repeats the same annoyance. O, naughty, tiresome, Clarence! how can you
plague little Birdie so? Perhaps you think she doesn't dislike it; you may
be right, very likely she doesn't.

She sometimes wonders why he grows paler and thinner each day, and his
nervous and sometimes distracted manner teases her dreadfully; but she
supposes all lovers act thus, and expects they cannot help it--and then
little Birdie takes a sly peep in the glass, and does not so much wonder
after all.

Yet if she sometimes deems his manner startling and odd, what would she say
if she knew that, night after night, when he left her side, he wandered for
long hours through the cold and dreary streets, and then went to his hotel,
where he paced his room until almost day?

Ah, little Birdie, a smile will visit his pale face when you chirp tenderly
to him, and a faint tinge comes upon his cheek when you lay your soft tiny
hand upon it; yet all the while there is that desperate secret lying next
his heart, and, like a vampire, sucking away, drop by drop, happiness and
peace.

Not so with little Birdie; she is happy--oh, _so_ happy: she rises with a
song upon her lips, and is chirping in the sunshine she herself creates,
the live-long day. Flowers of innocence bloom and flourish in her peaceful
lithesome heart. Poor, poor, little Birdie! those flowers are destined to
wither soon, and the sunlight fade from thy happy face for ever.

One morning, Clarence, little Birdie, and her intended bridesmaid, Miss
Ellstowe, were chatting together, when a card was handed to the latter,
who, on looking at it, exclaimed, "Oh, dear me! an old beau of mine; show
him up," and scampering off to the mirror, she gave a hasty glance, to see
that every curl was in its effective position.

"Who is it?" asked little Birdie, all alive with curiosity; "do say who it
is."

"Hush!" whispered Miss Ellstowe, "here he comes, my dear; he is very
rich--a great catch; are my curls all right?"

Scarcely had she asked the question, and before an answer could be
returned, the servant announced Mr. George Stevens, and the gentleman
walked into the room.

Start not, reader, it is not the old man we left bent over the prostrate
form of his unconscious daughter, but George Stevens, junior, the son and
heir of the old man aforesaid. The heart of Clarence almost ceased to beat
at the sound of that well-known name, and had not both the ladies been so
engrossed in observing the new-comer, they must have noticed the deep flush
that suffused his face, and the deathly pallor that succeeded it.

Mr. Stevens was presented to Miss Bates, and Miss Ellstowe turned to
present him to Clarence. "Mr. Garie--Mr. Stevens," said she. Clarence
bowed.

"Pardon me, I did not catch the name," said the former, politely.

"Mr. Clarence Garie," she repeated, more distinctly.

George Stevens bowed, and then sitting down opposite Clarence, eyed him for
a few moments intently. "I think we have met before," said he at last, in a
cold, contemptuous tone, not unmingled with surprise, "have we not?"

Clarence endeavoured to answer, but could not; he was, for a moment,
incapable of speech; a slight gurgling noise was heard in his throat, as he
bowed affirmatively.

"We were neighbours at one time, I think," added George Stevens.

"We were," faintly ejaculated Clarence.

"It is a great surprise to me to meet _you_ here," pursued George Stevens.

"The surprise is mutual, I assure you, sir," rejoined Clarence, coldly, and
with slightly agitated manner.

Hereupon ensued an embarrassing pause in the conversation, during which the
ladies could not avoid observing the livid hue of Clarence's face. There
was a perfect tumult raging in his breast; he knew that now his
long-treasured secret would be brought out; this was to be the end of his
struggle to preserve it--to be exposed at last, when on the brink of
consummating his happiness. As he sat there, looking at George Stevens, he
became a murderer in his heart; and if an invisible dagger could have been
placed in his hands, he would have driven it to the hilt in his breast, and
stilled for ever the tongue that was destined to betray him.

But it was too late; one glance at the contemptuous, malignant face of the
son of his father's murderer, told him his fate was sealed--that it was
now too late to avert exposure. He grew faint, dizzy, ill,--and rising,
declared hurriedly he must go, staggered towards the door, and fell upon
the carpet, with a slight stream of blood spirting from his mouth.

Little Birdie screamed, and ran to raise him; George Stevens and Miss
Ellstowe gave their assistance, and by their united efforts he was placed
upon the sofa. Little Birdie wiped the bloody foam from his mouth with her
tiny lace handkerchief, bathed his head, and held cold water to his lips;
but consciousness was long returning, and they thought he was dying.

Poor torn heart! pity it was thy beatings were not stilled then for ever.
It was not thy fate; long, long months of grief and despair were yet to
come before the end approached and day again broke upon thee.

Just at this crisis Mr. Bates came in, and was greatly shocked and alarmed
by Clarence's deathly appearance. As he returned to consciousness he looked
wildly about him, and clasping little Birdie's hand in his, gazed at her
with a tender imploring countenance: yet it was a despairing look--such a
one as a shipwrecked seaman gives when, in sight of land, he slowly relaxes
his hold upon the sustaining spar that he has no longer the strength to
clutch, and sinks for ever beneath the waters.

A physician was brought in, who declared he had ruptured a minor
blood-vessel, and would not let him utter a whisper, and, assisted by Mr.
Bates, placed him in his carriage, and the three were driven as swiftly as
possible to the hotel where Clarence was staying. Little Birdie retired to
her room in great affliction, followed by Miss Ellstowe, and George Stevens
was left in the room alone.

"What can the fellow have been doing here?" he soliloquised; "on intimate
terms too, apparently; it is very singular; I will wait Miss Ellstowe's
return, and ask an explanation."

When Miss Ellstowe re-entered the room, he immediately inquired, "What was
that Mr. Garie doing here? He seems on an exceedingly intimate footing,
and your friend apparently takes a wonderful interest in him."

"Of course she does; that is her _fiance_."

"_Impossible_!" rejoined he, with an air of astonishment.

"Impossible!--why so? I assure you he is. They are to be married in a few
weeks. I am here to officiate as bridesmaid."

"Phew!" whistled George Stevens; and then, after pausing a moment, he
asked, "Do you know anything about this Mr. Garie--anything, I mean,
respecting his family?"

"Why, no--that is, nothing very definite, more than that he is an orphan,
and a gentleman of education and independent means."

"Humph!" ejaculated George Stevens, significantly.

"Humph!" repeated Miss Ellstowe, "what do you mean? Do you know anything
beyond that? One might suppose you did, from your significant looks and
gestures."

"Yes, I _do_ know something about this Mr. Garie," he replied, after a
short silence. "But tell me what kind of people are these you are
visiting--Abolitionists, or anything of that sort?"

"How absurd, Mr. Stevens, to ask such a question; of course they are not,"
said she, indignantly; "do you suppose I should be here if they were? But
why do you ask--is this Mr. Garie one?"

"No, my friend," answered her visitor; "_I wish that was all_."

"That was all!--how strangely you talk--you alarm me," continued she, with
considerable agitation. "If you know anything that will injure the
happiness of my friend--anything respecting Mr. Garie that she or her
father should know--make no secret of it, but disclose it to me at once.
Anne is my dearest friend, and I, of course, must be interested in anything
that concerns her happiness. Tell me, what is it you know?"

"It is nothing, I assure you, that it will give me any pleasure to tell,"
answered he. "Do speak out, Mr. Stevens. Is there any stain on his
character, or that of his family? Did he ever do anything dishonourable?"

"_I wish that was all_," coolly repeated George Stevens. "I am afraid he is
a villain, and has been imposing himself upon this family for what he is
not."

"Good Heavens! Mr. Stevens, how is he a villain or impostor?"

"You all suppose him to be a white man, do you not?" he asked.

"Of course we do," she promptly answered.

"Then you are all grievously mistaken, for he is not. Did you not notice
how he changed colour, how agitated he became, when I was presented? It was
because he knew that his exposure was at hand. I know him well--in fact, he
is the illegitimate son of a deceased relative of mine, by a mulatto
slave."

"It cannot be possible," exclaimed Miss Ellstowe, with a wild stare of
astonishment. "Are you sure of it?"

"Sure of it! of course I am. I should indeed be a rash man to make such a
terrible charge unless perfectly able to substantiate it. I have played
with him frequently when a child, and my father made a very liberal
provision for this young man and his sister, after the death of their
father, who lost his life through imprudently living with this woman in
Philadelphia, and consequently getting himself mixed up with these
detestable Abolitionists."

"Can this be true?" asked Miss Ellstowe, incredulously.

"I assure you it is. We had quite lost sight of them for a few years back,
and I little supposed we should meet under such circumstances. I fear I
shall be the cause of great discomfort, but I am sure in the end I shall be
thanked. I could not, with any sense of honour or propriety, permit such a
thing as this marriage to be consummated, without at least warning your
friends of the real position of this fellow. I trust, Miss Ellstowe, you
will inform them of what I have told you." "How can I? Oh, Mr. Stevens!"
said she, in a tone of deep distress, "this will be a terrible blow--it
will almost kill Anne. No, no; the task must not devolve on me--I cannot
tell them. Poor little thing! it will break her heart, I am afraid."

"Oh, but you must, Miss Ellstowe; it would seem very impertinent in me--a
stranger--to meddle in such a matter; and, besides, they may be aware of
it, and not thank me for my interference."

"No, I assure you they are not; I am confident they have not the most
distant idea of such a thing--they would undoubtedly regard it as an act of
kindness on your part. I shall insist upon your remaining until the return
of Mr. Bates, when I shall beg you to repeat to him what you have already
revealed to me."

"As you insist upon it, I suppose I must," repeated he, after some
reflection; "but I must say I do not like the office of informer,"
concluded he, with assumed reluctance.

"I am sorry to impose it upon you; yet, rest assured, they will thank you.
Excuse me for a few moments--I will go and see how Anne is."

Miss Ellstowe returned, after a short interval, with the information that
little Birdie was much more composed, and would, no doubt, soon recover
from her fright.

"To receive a worse blow," observed George Stevens. "I pity the poor little
thing--only to think of the disgrace of being engaged to a <DW65>. It is
fortunate for them that they will make the discovery ere it be too late.
Heavens! only think what the consequences might have been had she married
this fellow, and his peculiar position became known to them afterwards! She
would have been completely 'done for.'"

Thus conversing respecting Clarence, they awaited the return of Mr. Bates.
After the lapse of a couple of hours he entered the drawing-room. Mr.
Stevens was presented to him by Miss Ellstowe, as a particular friend of
herself and family. "I believe you were here when I came in before; I
regret I was obliged to leave so abruptly," courteously spoke Mr. Bates,
whilst bowing to his new acquaintance; "the sudden and alarming illness of
my young friend will, I trust, be a sufficient apology."

"How is he now?" asked Miss Ellstowe.

"Better--much better," answered he, cheerfully; "but very wild and
distracted in his manner--alarmingly so, in fact. He clung to my hand, and
wrung it when we parted, and bid me good bye again and again, as if it was
for the last time. Poor fellow! he is frightened at that hemorrhage, and is
afraid it will be fatal; but there is not any danger, he only requires to
be kept quiet--he will soon come round again, no doubt. I shall have to ask
you to excuse me again," said he, in conclusion; "I must go and see my
daughter."

Mr. Bates was rising to depart, when George Stevens gave Miss Ellstowe a
significant look, who said, in a hesitating tone, "Mr. Bates, one moment
before you go. My friend, Mr. Stevens, has a communication to make to you
respecting Mr. Garie, which will, I fear, cause you, as it already has me,
deep distress."

"Indeed!" rejoined Mr. Bates, in a tone of surprise; "What is it? Nothing
that reflects upon his character, I hope."

"I do not know how my information will influence your conduct towards him,
for I do not know what your sentiments may be respecting such persons. I
know society in general do not receive them, and my surprise was very great
to find him here."

"I do not understand you; what do you mean?" demanded Mr. Bates, in a tone
of perplexity; "has he ever committed any crime?"

"HE IS A <DW52> MAN," answered George Stevens, briefly. Mr. Bates became
almost purple, and gasped for breath; then, after staring at his informant
for a few seconds incredulously, repeated the words "<DW52> man," in a
dreamy manner, as if in doubt whether he had really heard them.

"Yes, <DW52> man," said George Stevens, confidently; "it grieves me to
be the medium of such disagreeable intelligence; and I assure you I only
undertook the office upon the representation of Miss Ellstowe, that you
were not aware of the fact, and would regard my communication as an act of
kindness."

"It--it _can't_ be," exclaimed Mr. Bates, with the air of a man determined
not to be convinced of a disagreeable truth; "it cannot be possible."

Hereupon George Stevens related to him what he had recently told Miss
Ellstowe respecting the parentage and position of Clarence. During the
narration, the old man became almost frantic with rage and sorrow, bursting
forth once or twice with the most violent exclamations; and when George
Stevens concluded, he rose and said, in a husky voice--

"I'll kill him, the infernal hypocrite! Oh! the impostor to come to my
house in this nefarious manner, and steal the affections of my
daughter--the devilish villain! a bastard! a contemptible black-hearted
<DW65>. Oh, my child--my child! it will break your heart when you know what
deep disgrace has come upon you. I'll go to him," added he, his face
flushed, and his white hair almost erect with rage; "I'll murder
him--there's not a man in the city will blame me for it," and he grasped
his cane as though he would go at once, and inflict summary vengeance upon
the offender.

"Stop, sir, don't be rash," exclaimed George Stevens; "I would not screen
this fellow from the effects of your just and very natural indignation--he
is abundantly worthy of the severest punishment you can bestow; but if you
go in your present excited state, you might be tempted to do something
which would make this whole affair public, and injure, thereby, your
daughter's future. You'll pardon me, I trust, and not think me presuming
upon my short acquaintance in making the suggestion."

Mr. Bates looked about him bewilderedly for a short time, and then replied,
"No, no, you need not apologize, you are right--I thank you; I myself
should have known better. But my poor child! what will become of her?" and
in an agony of sorrow he resumed his seat, and buried his face in his
hands.

George Stevens prepared to take his departure, but Mr. Bates pressed him to
remain. "In a little while," said he, "I shall be more composed, and then I
wish you to go with me to this worthless scoundrel. I must see him at once,
and warn him what the consequences will be should he dare approach my child
again. Don't fear me," he added, as he saw George Stevens hesitated to
remain; "that whirlwind of passion is over now. I promise you I shall do
nothing unworthy of myself or my child."

It was not long before they departed together for the hotel at which
Clarence was staying. When they entered his room, they found him in his
bed, with the miniature of little Birdie in his hands. When he observed the
dark scowl on the face of Mr. Bates, and saw by whom he was accompanied, he
knew his secret was discovered; he saw it written on their faces. He
trembled like a leaf, and his heart seemed like a lump of ice in his bosom.
Mr. Bates was about to speak, when Clarence held up his hand in the
attitude of one endeavouring to ward off a blow, and whispered hoarsely--

"Don't tell me--not yet--a little longer! I see you know all. I see my
sentence written on your face! Let me dream a little longer ere you speak
the words that must for ever part me and little Birdie. I know you have
come to separate us--but don't tell me yet; for when you do," said he, in
an agonized tone, "it will kill me!"

"I wish to God it would!" rejoined Mr. Bates. "I wish you had died long
ago; then you would have never come beneath my roof to destroy its peace
for ever. You have acted basely, palming yourself upon us--counterfeit as
you were! and taking in exchange her true love and my honest, honourable
regard."

Clarence attempted to speak, but Mr. Bates glared at him, and
continued--"There are laws to punish thieves and counterfeits--but such as
you may go unchastised, except by the abhorrence of all honourable men. Had
you been unaware of your origin, and had the revelation of this gentleman
been as new to you as to me, you would have deserved sympathy; but you have
been acting a lie, claiming a position in society to which you knew you had
no right, and deserve execration and contempt. Did I treat you as my
feelings dictated, you would understand what is meant by the weight of a
father's anger; but I do not wish the world to know that my daughter has
been wasting her affections upon a worthless <DW65>; that is all that
protects you! Now, hear me," he added, fiercely,--"if ever you presume to
darken my door again, or attempt to approach my daughter, I will shoot you,
as sure as you sit there before me!"

"And serve you perfectly right!" observed George Stevens.

"Silence, sir!" rejoined Clarence, sternly. "How dare you interfere? He may
say what he likes--reproach me as he pleases--_he_ is _her_ father--I have
no other reply; but if you dare again to utter a word, I'll--" and Clarence
paused and looked about him as if in search of something with which to
enforce silence.

Feeble-looking as he was, there was an air of determination about him which
commanded acquiescence, and George Stevens did not venture upon another
observation during the interview.

"I want my daughter's letters--every line she ever wrote to you; get them
at once--I want them now," said Mr. Bates, imperatively.

"I cannot give them to you immediately, they are not accessible at present.
Does she want them?" he asked, feebly--"has she desired to have them back?"

"Never mind that!" said the old man, sternly; "no evasions. Give me the
letters!"

"To-morrow I will send them," said Clarence. "I will read them all over
once again," thought he.

"I cannot believe you," said Mr. Bates.

"I promise you upon my honour I will send them tomorrow!"

"_A <DW65>'s honour!_" rejoined Mr. Bates, with a contemptuous sneer.
"Yes, sir--a <DW65>'s honour!" repeated Clarence, the colour mounting to
his pale cheeks. "A few drops of <DW64> blood in a man's reins do not
entirely deprive him of noble sentiments. 'Tis true my past concealment
does not argue in my favour.--I concealed that which was no fault of my
own, but what the injustice of society has made a crime."

"I am not here for discussion; and I suppose I must trust to your
_honour_," interrupted Mr. Bates, with a sneer. "But remember, if the
letters are not forthcoming to-morrow I shall be here again, and then,"
concluded he in a threatening tone, "my visit will not be as harmless as
this has been!"

After they had gone, Clarence rose and walked feebly to his desk, which,
with great effort and risk, he removed to the bed-side; then taking from it
little Birdie's letters, he began their perusal.

Ay! read them again--and yet again; pore over their contents--dwell on
those passages replete with tenderness, until every word is stamped upon
thy breaking heart--linger by them as the weary traveller amid Sahara's
sand pauses by some sparkling fountain in a shady oasis, tasting of its
pure waters ere he launches forth again upon the arid waste beyond. This is
the last green spot upon thy way to death; beyond whose grim portals, let
us believe, thou and thy "little Birdie" may meet again.



CHAPTER XXXIV.

"Murder will out."


The city clocks had just tolled out the hour of twelve, the last omnibus
had rumbled by, and the silence without was broken only at rare intervals
when some belated citizen passed by with hurried footsteps towards his
home. All was still in the house of Mr. Stevens--so quiet, that the ticking
of the large clock in the hall could be distinctly heard at the top of the
stairway, breaking the solemn stillness of the night with its monotonous
"click, click--click, click!"

In a richly furnished chamber overlooking the street a dim light was
burning; so dimly, in fact, that the emaciated form of Mr. Stevens was
scarcely discernible amidst the pillows and covering of the bed on which he
was lying. Above him a brass head of curious workmanship held in its
clenched teeth the canopy that overshadowed the bed; and as the light
occasionally flickered and brightened, the curiously carved face seemed to
light up with a sort of sardonic grin; and the grating of the
curtain-rings, as the sick man tossed from side to side in his bed, would
have suggested the idea that the odd supporter of the canopy was gnashing
his brazen teeth at him.

On the wall, immediately opposite the light, hung a portrait of Mrs.
Stevens; not the sharp, hard face we once introduced to the reader, but a
smoother, softer countenance--yet a worn and melancholy one in its
expression. It looked as if the waves of grief had beaten upon it for a
long succession of years, until they had tempered down its harsher
peculiarities, giving a subdued appearance to the whole countenance.

"There is twelve o'clock--give me my drops again, Lizzie," he remarked,
faintly. At the sound of his voice Lizzie emerged from behind the curtains,
and essayed to pour into a glass the proper quantity of medicine. She was
twice obliged to pour back into the phial what she had just emptied forth,
as the trembling of her hands caused her each time to drop too much; at
last, having succeeded in getting the exact number of drops, she handed him
the glass, the contents of which he eagerly drank.

"There!" said he, "thank you; now, perhaps, I may sleep. I have not slept
for two nights--such has been my anxiety about that man; nor you either, my
child--I have kept you awake also. You can sleep, though, without drops.
To-morrow, when you are prepared to start, wake me, if I am asleep, and let
me speak to you before you go. Remember, Lizzie, frighten him if you can!
Tell him, I am ill myself--that I can't survive this continued worriment
and annoyance. Tell him, moreover, I am not made of gold, and will not be
always giving. I don't believe he is sick--dying--do you?" he asked,
looking into her face, as though he did not anticipate an affirmative
answer.

"No, father, I don't think he is really ill; I imagine it is another
subterfuge to extract money. Don't distress yourself unnecessarily; perhaps
I may have some influence with him--I had before, you know!"

"Yes, yes, dear, you managed him very well that time--very well," said he,
stroking down her hair affectionately. "I--I--my child, I could never have
told you of that dreadful secret; but when I found that you knew it all, my
heart experienced a sensible relief. It was a selfish pleasure, I know; yet
it eased me to share my secret; the burden is not half so heavy now."

"Father, would not your mind be easier still, if you could be persuaded to
make restitution to his children? This wealth is valueless to us both. You
can never ask forgiveness for the sin whilst you cling thus tenaciously to
its fruits."

"Tut, tut--no more of that!" said he, impatiently; "I cannot do it without
betraying myself. If I gave it back to them, what would become of you and
George, and how am I to stop the clamours of that cormorant? No, no! it is
useless to talk of it--I cannot do it!"

"There would be still enough left for George, after restoring them their
own, and you might give this man my share of what is left. I would rather
work day and night," said she, determinedly, "than ever touch a penny of
the money thus accumulated."

"I've thought all that over, long ago, but I dare not do it--it might cause
inquiries to be made that might result to my disadvantage. No, I cannot do
that; sit down, and let us be quiet now."

Mr. Stevens lay back upon his pillow, and for a moment seemed to doze; then
starting up again suddenly, he asked, "Have you told George about it? Have
you ever confided anything to him?"

"No, papa," answered she soothingly, "not a breath; I've been secret as the
grave."

"That's right!" rejoined he--"that is right! I love George, but not as I do
you. He only comes to me when he wants money. He is not like you,
darling--you take care of and nurse your poor old father. Has he come in
yet?"

"Not yet; he never gets home until almost morning, and is then often
fearfully intoxicated."

The old man shook his head, and muttered, "The sins of the fathers
shall--what is that? Did you hear that noise?--hush!"

Lizzie stood quietly by him for a short while, and then walked on tiptoe to
the door--"It is George," said she, after peering into the gloom of their
entry; "he has admitted him self with his night-key."

The shuffling sound of footsteps was now quite audible upon the stairway,
and soon the bloated face of Mr. Stevens's hopeful son was seen at the
chamber door. In society and places where this young gentleman desired to
maintain a respectable character he could be as well behaved, as choice in
his language, and as courteous as anybody; but at home, where he was well
known, and where he did not care to place himself under any restraint, he
was a very different individual.

"Let me in, Liz," said he, in a thick voice; "I want the old man to fork
over some money--I'm cleaned out."

"No, no--go to bed, George," she answered, coaxingly, "and talk to him
about it in the morning."

"I'm coming in _now_," said he, determinedly; "and besides, I want to tell
you something about that <DW65> Garie."

"Tell us in the morning," persisted Lizzy.

"No--I'm going to tell you now," rejoined he, forcing his way into the
room--"it's too good to keep till morning. Pick up that wick, let a fellow
see if you are all alive!"

Lizzie raised the wick of the lamp in accordance with his desire, and then
sat down with an expression of annoyance and vexation on her countenance.

George threw himself into an easy chair, and began, "I saw that white
<DW65> Garie to-night, he was in company with a gentleman, at that--the
assurance of that fellow is perfectly incomprehensible. He was drinking at
the bar of the hotel; and as it is no secret why he and Miss Bates parted,
I enlightened the company on the subject of his antecedents. He threatened
to challenge me! Ho! ho!--fight with a <DW65>--that is too good a joke!"
And laughing heartily, the young ruffian leant back in his chair. "I want
some money to-morrow, dad," continued he. "I say, old gentleman, wasn't it
a lucky go that darkey's father was put out of the way so nicely,
eh?--We've been living in clover ever since--haven't we?"

"How dare you address me-in that disrespectful manner? Go out of the room,
sir!" exclaimed Mr. Stevens, with a disturbed countenance.

"Come, George, go to bed," urged his sister wearily. "Let father sleep--it
is after twelve o'clock. I am going to wake the nurse, and then retire
myself."

George rose stupidly from his chair, and followed his sister from the room.
On the stairway he grasped her arm rudely, and said, "I don't understand
how it is that you and the old man are so cursed thick all of a sudden. You
are thick as two thieves, always whispering and talking together. Act fair,
Liz--don't persuade him to leave you all the money. If you do, we'll
quarrel--that's flat. Don't try and cozen him out of my share as well as
your own--you hear!"

"Oh, George!" rejoined she reproachfully--"I never had such an idea."

"Then what are you so much together for? Why is there so much whispering
and writing, and going off on journeys all alone? What does it all mean,
eh?"

"It means nothing at all, George. You are not yourself to-night," said she
evasively; "you had better go to bed."

"It is _you_ that are not yourself," he retorted. "What makes you look so
pale and worried--and why do you and the old man start if the door cracks,
as if the devil was after you? What is the meaning of that?" asked he with
a drunken leer. "You had better look out," concluded he; "I'm watching you
both, and will find out all your secrets by-and-by."

"Learn all our secrets! Ah, my brother!" thought she, as he disappeared
into his room, "you need not desire to have their fearful weight upon you,
or you will soon grow as anxious, thin, and pale as I am."

The next day at noon Lizzie started on her journey, after a short
conference with her father.

Night had settled upon her native city, when she was driven through its
straight and seemingly interminable thoroughfares. The long straight rows
of lamps, the snowy steps, the scrupulously clean streets, the signs over
the stores, were like the faces of old acquaintances, and at any other time
would have caused agreeable recollections; but the object of her visit
pre-occupied her mind, to the exclusion of any other and more pleasant
associations.

She ordered the coachman to take her to an obscure hotel, and, after having
engaged a room, she left her baggage and started in search of the residence
of McCloskey.

She drew her veil down over her face very closely, and walked quickly
through the familiar streets, until she arrived at the place indicated in
his letter. It was a small, mean tenement, in a by street, in which there
were but one or two other houses. The shutters were closed from the upper
story to the lowest, and the whole place wore an uninhabited appearance.
After knocking several times, she was about to give up in despair, when she
discovered through the glass above the door the faint glimmer of a light,
and shortly after a female voice demanded from the inside, "Who is there?"

"Does Mr. McCloskey live here?" asked Lizzie.

Hearing a voice not more formidable than her own, the person within
partially opened the door; and, whilst shading with one hand the candle she
held in the other, gazed out upon the speaker.

"Does Mr. McCloskey live here?" repeated Lizzie.

"Yes, he does," answered the woman, in a weak voice; "but he's got the
typers."

"Has the what?" inquired Lizzie, who did not exactly understand her.

"Got the typers--got the fever, you know."

"The typhus fever!" said Lizzie, with a start; "then he is really sick."

"Really sick!" repeated the woman--"really sick! Well, I should think he
was! Why, he's been a raving and swearing awful for days; he stormed and
screamed so loud that the neighbours complained. Law! they had to even
shave his head."

"Is he any better?" asked Lizzie, with a sinking heart. "Can I see him?"

"'Praps you can, if you go to the hospital to-morrow; but whether you'll
find him living or dead is more than I can say. I couldn't keep him here--I
wasn't able to stand him. I've had the fever myself--he took it from me.
You must come in," continued the woman, "if you want to talk--I'm afraid of
catching cold, and can't stand at the door. Maybe you're afraid of the
fever," she further observed, as she saw Lizzie hesitate on the door-step.

"Oh, no, I'm not afraid of that," answered Lizzie quickly--"I am not in the
least afraid."

"Come in, then," reiterated the woman, "and I'll tell you all about it."

The woman looked harmless enough, and Lizzie hesitated no longer, but
followed her through the entry into a decently furnished room. Setting the
candlestick upon the mantelpiece, she offered her visitor a chair, and then
continued--

"He came home this last time in an awful state. Before he left some one
sent him a load of money, and he did nothing but drink and gamble whilst it
lasted. I used to tell him that he ought to take care of his money, and
he'd snap his fingers and laugh. He used to say that he owned the goose
that laid the golden eggs, and could have money whenever he wanted it.
Well, as I was a saying, he went; and when he came back he had an awful
attack of _delirium tremens_, and then he took the typers. Oh, laws mercy!"
continued she, holding up her bony hands, "how that critter raved! He
talked about killing people."

"He did!" interrupted Lizzie, with a gesture of alarm, and laying her hand
upon her heart, which beat fearfully--"did he mention any name?"

The woman did not stop to answer this question, but proceeded as if she had
not been interrupted. "He was always going on about two orphans and a will,
and he used to curse and swear awfully about being obliged to keep
something hid. It was dreadful to listen to--it would almost make your hair
stand on end to hear him."

"And he never mentioned names?" said Lizzie inquiringly.

"No, that was so strange; he never mentioned no names--_never_. He used to
rave a great deal about two orphans and a will, and he would ransack the
bed, and pull up the sheets, and look under the pillows, as if he thought
it was there. Oh, he acted very strange, but never mentioned no names. I
used to think he had something in his trunk, he was so very special about
it. He was better the day they took him off; and the trunk went with
him--he would have it; but since then he's had a dreadful relapse, and
there's no knowin' whether he is alive or dead."

"I must go to the hospital," said Lizzie, rising from her seat, and greatly
relieved to learn that nothing of importance had fallen from McCloskey
during his delirium. "I shall go there as quickly as I can," she observed,
walking to the door.

"You'll not see him to-night if you do," rejoined the woman. "Are you a
relation?"

"Oh, no," answered Lizzie; "my father is an acquaintance of his. I learned
that he was ill, and came to inquire after him."

Had the woman not been very indifferent or unobservant, she would have
noticed the striking difference between the manner and appearance of Lizzie
Stevens and the class who generally came to see McCloskey. She did not,
however, appear to observe it, nor did she manifest any curiosity greater
than that evidenced by her inquiring if he was a relative.

Lizzie walked with a lonely feeling through the quiet streets until she
arrived at the porter's lodge of the hospital. She pulled the bell with
trembling hands, and the door was opened by the little bald-headed man
whose loquacity was once (the reader will remember) so painful to Mrs.
Ellis. There was no perceptible change in his appearance, and he manifestly
took as warm an interest in frightful accidents as ever. "What is it--what
is it?" he asked eagerly, as Lizzie's pale face became visible in the
bright light that shone from the inner office. "Do you want a stretcher?"

The rapidity with which he asked these questions, and his eager manner,
quite startled her, and she was for a moment unable to tell her errand.

"Speak up, girl--speak up! Do you want a stretcher--is it burnt or run
over. Can't you speak, eh?"

It now flashed upon Lizzie that the venerable janitor was labouring under
the impression that she had come to make application for the admission of a
patient, and she quickly answered--

"Oh, no; it is nothing of the kind, I am glad to say."

"Glad to say," muttered the old man, the eager, expectant look disappearing
from his face, giving place to one of disappointment--"glad to say; why
there hasn't been an accident to-day, and here you've gone and rung the
bell, and brought me here to the door for nothing. What do you want then?"

"I wish to inquire after a person who is here."

"What's his number?" gruffly inquired he.

"That I cannot tell," answered she; "his name is McCloskey."

"I don't know anything about him. Couldn't tell who he is unless I go all
over the books to-night. We don't know people by their names here; come in
the morning--ten o'clock, and don't never ring that bell again," concluded
he, sharply, "unless you want a stretcher: ringing the bell, and no
accident;" and grumbling at being disturbed for nothing, he abruptly closed
the door in Lizzie's face.

Anxious and discomfited, she wandered back to her hotel; and after drinking
a weak cup of tea, locked her room-door, and retired to bed. There she lay,
tossing from side to side--she could not sleep--her anxiety respecting her
father's safety; her fears, lest in the delirium of fever McCloskey should
discover their secret, kept her awake far into the night, and the city
clocks struck two ere she fell asleep.

When she awoke in the morning the sun was shining brightly into her room;
for a few moments she could not realize where she was; but the events of
the past night soon came freshly to her; looking at her watch, she
remembered that she was to go to the hospital at ten, and it was already
half-past nine; her wakefulness the previous night having caused her to
sleep much later than her usual hour.

Dressing herself in haste, she hurried down to breakfast; and after having
eaten a slight meal, ordered a carriage, and drove to the hospital.

The janitor was in his accustomed seat, and nodded smilingly to her as she
entered. He beckoned her to him, and whispered, "I inquired about him.
McCloskey, fever-ward, No. 21, died this morning at two o'clock and forty
minutes."

"Dead!" echoed Lizzie, with a start of horror.

"Yes, dead," repeated he, with a complacent look; "any relation of
yours--want an order for the body?"

Lizzie was so astounded by this intelligence, that she could not reply; and
the old man continued mysteriously. "Came to before he died--wish he
hadn't--put me to a deal of trouble--sent for a magistrate--then for a
minister--had something on his mind--couldn't die without telling it, you
know; then there was oaths, depositions--so much trouble. Are you his
relation--want an order for the body?"

"Oaths! magistrate!--a confession no doubt," thought Lizzie; her limbs
trembled; she was so overcome with terror that she could scarcely stand;
clinging to the railing of the desk by which she was standing for support,
she asked, hesitatingly, "He had something to confess then?"

The janitor looked at her for a few moments attentively, and seemed to
notice for the first time her ladylike appearance and manners; a sort of
reserve crept over him at the conclusion of his scrutiny, for he made no
answer to her question, but simply asked, with more formality than before,
"Are you a relation--do you want an order for the body?"

Ere Lizzie could answer his question, a man, plainly dressed, with keen
grey eyes that seemed to look restlessly about in every corner of the room,
came and stood beside the janitor. He looked at Lizzie from the bow on the
top of her bonnet to the shoes on her feet; it was not a stare, it was more
a hasty glance--and yet she could not help feeling that he knew every item
of her dress, and could have described her exactly.

"Are you a relative of this person," he asked, in a clear sharp voice,
whilst his keen eyes seemed to be piercing her through in search of the
truth.

"No, sir," she answered, faintly.

"A friend then, I presume," continued he, respectfully.

"An acquaintance," returned she. The man paused for a few moments, then
taking out his watch, looked at the time, and hastened from the office.

This man possessed Lizzie with a singular feeling of dread--why she could
not determine; yet, after he was gone, she imagined those cold grey eyes
were resting on her, and bidding the old janitor, who had grown reserved so
suddenly, good morning, she sprang into her carriage as fast as her
trembling limbs could carry her, and ordered the coachman to drive back to
the hotel.

"Father must fly!" soliloquized she; "the alarm will, no doubt, lend him
energy. I've heard of people who have not been able to leave their rooms
for months becoming suddenly strong under the influence of terror. We must
be off to some place of concealment until we can learn whether he is
compromised by that wretched man's confession."

Lizzie quickly paid her bill, packed her trunk, and started for the station
in hopes of catching the mid-day train for New York.

The driver did not spare his horses, but at her request drove them at their
utmost speed--but in vain. She arrived there only time enough to see the
train move away; and there, standing on the platform, looking at her with a
sort of triumphant satisfaction, was the man with the keen grey eyes.
"Stop! stop!" cried she.

"Too late, miss," said a bystander, sympathizingly; "just too late--no
other train for three hours."

"Three hours!" said Lizzie, despairingly; "three hours! Yet I must be
patient--there is no remedy," and she endeavoured to banish her fears and
occupy herself in reading the advertisements that were posted up about the
station. It was of no avail, that keen-looking man with his piercing grey
eyes haunted her; and she could not avoid associating him in her thoughts
with her father and McCloskey. What was he doing on the train, and why did
he regard her with that look of triumphant satisfaction.

Those were to her the three longest hours of her life. Wearily and
impatiently she paced up and down the long saloon, watching the hands of
the clock as they appeared to almost creep over the dial-plate. Twenty
times during those three hours did she compare the clock with her watch,
and found they moved on unvaryingly together.

At last the hour for the departure of the train arrived; and seated in the
car, she was soon flying at express speed on the way towards her home. "How
much sooner does the other train arrive than we?" she asked of the
conductor.

"Two hours and a half, miss," replied he, courteously; "we gain a half-hour
upon them."

"A half-hour--that is something gained," thought she; "I may reach my
father before that man. Can he be what I suspect?"

On they went--thirty--forty--fifty miles an hour, yet she thought it slow.
Dashing by villages, through meadows, over bridges,--rattling, screaming,
puffing, on their way to the city of New York. In due time they arrived at
the ferry, and after crossing the river were in the city itself. Lizzie
took the first carriage that came to hand, and was soon going briskly
through the streets towards her father's house. The nearer she approached
it, the greater grew her fears; a horrible presentiment that something
awful had occurred, grew stronger and stronger as she drew nearer home. She
tried to brave it off--resist it--crush it--but it came back upon her each
time with redoubled force.

On she went, nearer and nearer every moment, until at last she was in the
avenue itself. She gazed eagerly from the carriage, and thought she
observed one or two persons run across the street opposite her father's
house. It could not be!--she looked again--yes, there was a group beneath
his window. "Faster! faster!" she cried frantically; "faster if you can."
The door was at last reached; she sprang from the carriage and pressed
through the little knot of people who were gathered on the pavement. Alas!
her presentiments were correct. There, lying on the pavement, was the
mangled form of her father, who had desperately sprung from the balcony
above, to escape arrest from the man with the keen grey eyes, who, with the
warrant in his hand, stood contemplating the lifeless body.

"Father! father!" cried Lizzie, in an anguished voice; "father, speak
once!" Too late! too late! the spirit had passed away--the murderer had
rushed before a higher tribunal--a mightier Judge--into the presence of One
who tempers justice with mercy.



CHAPTER XXXV.

The Wedding.


The night that Lizzie Stevens arrived in Philadelphia was the one decided
upon for the marriage of Emily Garie and Charles Ellis; and whilst she was
wandering so lonely through the streets of one part of the city, a scene of
mirth and gaiety was transpiring in another, some of the actors in which
would be made more happy by events that would be productive of great sorrow
to her.

Throughout that day bustle and confusion had reigned supreme in the house
of Mr. Walters. Caddy, who had been there since the break of day, had taken
the domestic reins entirely from the hands of the mistress of the mansion,
and usurped command herself. Quiet Esther was well satisfied to yield her
full control of the domestic arrangements for the festivities, and Caddy
was nothing loath to assume them.

She entered upon the discharge of her self-imposed duties with such ardour
as to leave no doubt upon the minds of the parties most interested but that
they would be thoroughly performed, and with an alacrity too that
positively appalled quiet Esther's easy-going servants.

Great doubts had been expressed as to whether Caddy could successfully
sustain the combined characters of _chef de cuisine_ and bridesmaid, and a
failure had been prophesied. She therefore felt it incumbent upon her to
prove these prognostications unfounded, and demonstrate the practicability
of the undertaking. On the whole, she went to work with energy, and seemed
determined to establish the fact that her abilities were greatly
underrated, and that a woman could accomplish more than one thing at a
time when she set about it.

The feelings of all such persons about the establishment of Mr. Walters as
were "constitutionally tired" received that day divers serious shocks at
the hands of Miss Caddy--who seemed endowed with a singular faculty which
enabled her to discover just what people did not want to do, and of setting
them at it immediately.

For instance, Jane, the fat girl, hated going upstairs excessively. Caddy
employed her in bringing down glass and china from a third-story pantry;
and, moreover, only permitted her to bring a small quantity at a time,
which rendered a number of trips strictly necessary, to the great
aggravation and serious discomfort of the fat girl in question.

On the other hand, Julia, the slim chambermaid, who would have been
delighted with such employment, and who would have undoubtedly refreshed
herself on each excursion upstairs with a lengthened gaze from the window,
was condemned to the polishing of silver and dusting of plates and glass in
an obscure back pantry, which contained but one window, and that commanding
a prospect of a dead wall.

Miss Caddy felt in duty bound to inspect each cake, look over the wine, and
(to the great discomfiture of the waiter) decant it herself, not liking to
expose him to any unnecessary temptation. She felt, too, all the more
inclined to assume the office of butler from the fact that, at a previous
party of her sister's, she had detected this same gentleman with a bottle
of the best sherry at his mouth, whilst he held his head thrown back in a
most surprising manner, with a view, no doubt, of contemplating the ceiling
more effectually from that position.

Before night such was the increasing demand for help in the kitchen that
Caddy even kidnapped the nurse, and locked the brown baby and her sister in
the bath-room, where there was no window in their reach, nor any other
means at hand from which the slightest injury could result to them. Here
they were supplied with a tub half filled with water, and spent the time
most delightfully in making boats of their shoes, and lading them with
small pieces of soap, which they bit off from the cake for the occasion;
then, coasting along to the small towns on the borders of the tub, they
disposed of their cargoes to imaginary customers to immense advantage.

Walters had declared the house uninhabitable, and had gone out for the day.
Esther and Emily busied themselves in arranging the flowers in the
drawing-room and hall, and hanging amidst the plants on the balcony little
stained glass lamps; all of which Caddy thought very well in its way, but
which she was quite confident would be noticed much less by the guests than
the supper--in which supposition she was undoubtedly correct.

Kinch also lounged in two or three times during the day, to seek
consolation at the hands of Esther and Emily. He was in deep distress of
mind--in great perturbation. His tailor had promised to send home a vest
the evening previous and had not fulfilled his agreement. After his first
visit Kinch entered the house in the most stealthy manner, for fear of
being encountered by Caddy; who, having met him in the hall during the
morning, posted him off for twenty pounds of sugar, a ball of twine, and a
stone jar, despite his declaration of pre-engagements, haste, and limited
knowledge of the articles in question.

Whilst Lizzie Stevens was tremblingly ringing the bell at the lodge of the
hospital, busy hands were also pulling at that of Mr. Walters's dwelling.
Carriage after carriage rolled up, and deposited their loads of gay
company, who skipped nimbly over the carpet that was laid down from the
door to the curbstone. Through the wide hall and up the stairway, flowers
of various kinds mingled their fragrance and loaded the air with their rich
perfume; and expressions of delight burst from the lips of the guests as
they passed up the brilliantly-lighted stairway and thronged the spacious
drawing-rooms. There were but few whites amongst them, and they
particular friends. There was Mrs. Bird, who had travelled from Warmouth to
be present at the ceremony; Mr. Balch, the friend and legal adviser of the
bride's father; Father Banks, who was to tie the happy knot; and there,
too, was Mrs. Burrell, and that baby, now grown to a promising lad, and who
would come to the wedding because Charlie had sent him a regular invitation
written like that sent his parents.

Mr. and Mrs. Ellis were of course there,--the latter arrayed in a rich new
silk made up expressly for the occasion--and the former almost hidden in
his large easy chair. The poor old gentleman scarcely seemed able to
comprehend the affair, and apparently laboured under the impression that it
was another mob, and looked a little terrified at times when the laughter
or conversation grew louder than usual.

The hour for the ceremony was fast approaching, and Esther left the
assembled guests and went up into Emily Garie's room to assist the young
ladies in preparing the bride. They all besought her to be calm, not to
agitate herself upon any consideration; and then bustled about her, and
flurried themselves in the most ridiculous manner, with a view, no doubt,
of tranquillizing her feelings more effectually.

"Little Em," soon to be Mrs. Ellis, was busily engaged in dressing; the
toilet-table was covered with lighted candles, and all the gas-burners in
the room were in full blaze, bringing everything out in bold relief.

"We are having quite an illumination; the glare almost blinds me," said
Emily. "Put out some of the candles."

"No, no, my dear," rejoined one of the young ladies engaged in dressing
her; "we cannot sacrifice a candle. We don't need them to discern your
charms, Em; only to enable us to discover how to deck them to the best
advantage. How sweet you look!"

Emily gazed into the mirror; and from the blush that suffused her face and
the look of complacency that followed, it was quite evident that she shared
her friend's opinion. She did, indeed, look charming. There was a deeper
colour than usual on her cheeks, and her eyes were illumined with a soft,
tender light. Her wavy brown hair was parted smoothly on the front, and
gathered into a cluster of curls at the back. Around her neck glistened a
string of pearls, a present from Mr. Winston, who had just returned from
South America. The pure white silk fitted to a nicety, and the tiny satin
slippers seemed as if they were made upon her feet, and never intended to
come off again. Her costume was complete, with the exception of the veil
and wreath, and Esther opened the box that she supposed contained them, for
the purpose of arranging them on the bride.

"Where have you put the veil, my dear?" she asked, after raising the lid of
the box, and discovering that they were not there.

"In the box, are they not?" answered one of the young ladies.

"No, they are not there," continued Esther, as she turned over the various
articles with which the tables were strewed. All in vain; the veil and
wreath could be nowhere discovered.

"Are you sure it came home?" asked one.

"Of course," replied another; "I had it in my hand an hour ago."

Then a thorough search was commenced, all the drawers ransacked, and
everything turned over again and again; and just when they were about to
abandon the search in despair, one of the party returned from the adjoining
room, dragging along the brown baby, who had the veil wrapped about her
chubby shoulders as a scarf, and the wreath ornamenting her round curly
head. Even good-natured Esther was a little ruffled at this daring act of
baby's, and hastily divested that young lady of her borrowed adornments,
amidst the laughter of the group.

Poor baby was quite astonished at the precipitate manner in which she was
deprived of her finery, and was for a few moments quite overpowered by her
loss; but, perceiving a drawer open in the toilet-table, she dried her
eyes, and turned her attention in that direction, and in tossing its
contents upon the floor amply solaced herself for the deprivation she had
just undergone.

"Caddy is a famous chief bridesmaid--hasn't been here to give the least
assistance," observed Esther; "she is not even dressed herself. I will
ring, and ask where she can be--in the kitchen or supper-room I've no
doubt. Where is Miss Ellis?" she asked of the servant who came in answer
her summons.

"Downstairs, mem--the boy that brought the ice-cream kicked over a candy
ornament, and Miss Ellis was very busy a shaking of him when I came up."

"Do beg her to stop," rejoined Esther, with a laugh, "and tell her I say
she can shake him in the morning--we are waiting for her to dress now; and
also tell Mr. De Younge to come here to the door--I want him."

Kinch soon made his appearance, in accordance with Esther's request, and
fairly dazzled her with his costume. His blue coat was brazen with buttons,
and his white cravat tied with choking exactness; spotless vest, black
pants, and such patent leathers as you could have seen your face in with
ease.

"How fine you look, Kinch," said Esther admiringly.

"Yes," he answered; "the new vest came home--how do you like it?"

"Oh, admirable! But, Kinch, can't you go down, and implore Caddy to come up
and dress--time is slipping away very fast?"

"Oh, I daren't," answered Kinch, with a look of alarm--"I don't dare to go
down now that I'm dressed. She'll want me to carry something up to the
supper-room if I do--a pile of dishes, or something of the kind. I'd like
to oblige you, Mrs. Walters, but it's worth my new suit to do it."

Under these circumstances, Kinch was excused; and a deputation, headed by
Mr. Walters, was sent into the lower regions to wait upon Caddy, who
prevailed upon her to come up and dress, which she did, being all the
while very red in the face, and highly indignant at being sent for so
often.

"Good gracious!" she exclaimed, "what a pucker you are all in!"

"Why, Caddy, it's time to be," replied Esther--"it wants eight minutes of
the hour."

"And that is just three minutes more than I should want for dressing if I
was going to be married myself," rejoined she; and hastening away, she
returned in an incredibly short time, all prepared for the ceremony.

Charlie was very handsomely got up for the occasion. Emily, Esther,
Caddy--in fact, all of them--agreed that he never looked better in his
life. "That is owing to me--all my doings," said Kinch exultingly. "He
wanted to order his suit of old Forbes, who hasn't looked at a
fashion-plate for the last ten years, and I wouldn't let him. I took him to
my man, and see what he has made of him--turned him out looking like a
bridegroom, instead of an old man of fifty! It's all owing to me," said the
delighted Kinch, who skipped about the entry until he upset a vase of
flowers that stood on a bracket behind him; whereupon Caddy ran and brought
a towel, and made him take off his white gloves and wipe up the water, in
spite of his protestations that the shape of his pantaloons would not bear
the strain of stooping.

At last the hour arrived, and the bridal party descended to the
drawing-room in appropriate order, and stood up before Father Banks. The
ceremony was soon over, and Emily was clasped in Mrs. Ellis's arms, who
called her "daughter," and kissed her cheek with such warm affection that
she no longer felt herself an orphan, and paid back with tears and embraces
the endearments that were lavished upon her by her new relatives.

Father Banks took an early opportunity to give them each some good advice,
and managed to draw them apart for that purpose. He told them how imperfect
and faulty were all mankind--that married life was not all _couleur de
rose_--that the trials and cares incident to matrimony fully equalled its
pleasures; and besought them to bear with each other patiently, to be
charitable to each other's faults--and a reasonable share of earthly
happiness must be the result.

Then came the supper. Oh! such a supper!--such quantities of nice things as
money and skill alone can bring together. There were turkeys innocent of a
bone, into which you might plunge your knife to the very hilt without
coming in contact with a splinter--turkeys from which cunning cooks had
extracted every bone leaving the meat alone behind, with the skin not
perceptibly broken. How brown and tempting they looked, their capacious
bosoms giving rich promise of high-seasoned dressing within, and looking
larger by comparison with the tiny reed-birds beside them, which lay cosily
on the golden toast, looking as much as to say, "If you want something to
remember for ever, come and give me a bite!"

Then there were dishes of stewed terrapin, into which the initiated dipped
at once, and to which they for some time gave their undivided attention,
oblivious, apparently, of the fact that there was a dish of chicken-salad
close beside them.

Then there were oysters in every variety--silver dishes containing them
stewed, their fragrant macey odour wafting itself upward, and causing
watery sensations about the mouth. Waiters were constantly rushing into the
room, bringing dishes of them fried so richly brown, so smoking hot, that
no man with a heart in his bosom could possibly refuse them. Then there
were glass dishes of them pickled, with little black spots of allspice
floating on the pearly liquid that contained them. And lastly, oysters
broiled, whose delicious flavour exceeds my powers of description--these,
with ham and tongue, were the solid comforts. There were other things,
however, to which one could turn when the appetite grew more dainty; there
were jellies, blancmange, chocolate cream, biscuit glace, peach ice,
vanilla ice, orange-water ice, brandy peaches, preserved strawberries and
pines; not to say a word of towers of candy, bonbons, kisses, champagne,
Rhine wine, sparkling Catawba, liquors, and a man in the corner making
sherry cobblers of wondrous flavour, under the especial supervision of
Kinch; on the whole, it was an American supper, got up regardless of
expense--and whoever has been to such an entertainment knows very well what
an American supper is.

What a merry happy party it was--how they all seemed to enjoy
themselves--and how they all laughed, when the bride essayed to cut the
cake, and could not get the knife through the icing--and how the young
girls put pieces away privately, that they might place them under their
pillows to dream upon! What a happy time they had!

Father Banks enjoyed himself amazingly; he eat quantities of stewed
terrapin, and declared it the best he ever tasted. He talked gravely to the
old people--cheerfully and amusingly to the young; and was, in fact, having
a most delightful time--when a servant whispered to him that there was a
person in the entry who wished to see him immediately.

"Oh dear!" he exclaimed to Mr. Balch, "I was just congratulating myself
that I should have one uninterrupted evening, and you see the
result--called off at this late hour."

Father Banks followed the servant from the room, and inquired of the
messenger what was wanted.

"You must come to the hospital immediately, sir; the man with the
typhus-fever--you saw him yesterday--he's dying; he says he must see
you--that he has something important to confess. I'm to go for a magistrate
as well."

"Ah!" said Father Banks, "you need go no further, Alderman Balch is
here--he is quite competent to receive his depositions."

"I'm heartily glad of it," replied the man, "it will save me another hunt.
I had a hard time finding you. I've been to your house and two or three
other places, and was at last sent here. I'll go back and report that you
are coming and will bring a magistrate with you."

"Very good," rejoined Father Banks, "do so. I will be there immediately."
Hastening back to the supper room, he discovered Mr. Balch in the act of
helping himself to a brandy peach, and apprised him of the demand for his
services.

"Now, Banks," said he, good-humouredly, "that is outrageous. Why did you
not let him go for some one else? It is too bad to drag me away just when
the fun is about to commence." There was no alternative, however, and Mr.
Balch prepared to follow the minister to the bedside of McCloskey.

When they arrived at the hospital, they found him fast sinking--the livid
colour of his face, the sunken glassy eyes, the white lips, and the blue
tint that surrounded the eyes and mouth told at once the fearful story.
Death had come. He was in full possession of his faculties, and told them
all. How Stevens had saved him from the gallows--and how he agreed to
murder Mr. Garie--of his failure when the time of action arrived, and how,
in consequence, Stevens had committed the deed, and how he had paid him
time after time to keep his secret.

"In my trunk there," said he, in a dying whisper,--"in my trunk is the
will. I found it that night amongst his papers. I kept it to get money out
of his children with when old Stevens was gone. Here," continued he,
handing his key from beneath the pillow, "open my trunk and get it."

Mr. Balch eagerly unlocked the trunk, and there, sure enough, lay the
long-sought-for and important document.

"I knew it would be found at last. I always told Walters so; and now," said
he, exultingly, "see my predictions are verified."

McCloskey seemed anxious to atone for the past by making an ample
confession. He told them all he knew of Mr. Stevens's present
circumstances--how his property was situated, and every detail necessary
for their guidance. Then his confession was sworn to and witnessed; and the
dying man addressed himself to the affairs of the next world, and
endeavoured to banish entirely from his mind all thoughts of this.

After a life passed in the exercise of every Christian virtue--after a
lengthened journey over its narrow stony pathway, whereon temptations have
been met and triumphed over--where we have struggled with difficulties, and
borne afflictions without murmur or complaint, cheering on the weary we
have found sinking by the wayside, comforting and assisting the fallen,
endeavouring humbly and faithfully to do our duty to God and humanity--even
after a life thus passed, when we at last lie down to die the most faithful
and best may well shrink and tremble when they approach the gloomy portals
of death. At such an hour memory, more active than every other faculty,
drags all the good and evil from the past and sets them in distinct array
before us. Then we discover how greatly the latter exceeds the former in
our lives, and how little of our Father's work we have accomplished after
all our toils and struggles. 'Tis then the most devoted servant of our
common Master feels compelled to cry, "Mercy! O my Father!--for justice I
dare not ask."

If thus the Christian passes away--what terror must fill the breast of one
whose whole life has been a constant warfare upon the laws of God and man?
How approaches he the bar of that awful Judge, whose commands he has set at
nought, and whose power he has so often contemned? With a fainting heart,
and tongue powerless to crave the mercy his crimes cannot deserve!

McCloskey struggled long with death--died fearfully hard. The phantoms of
his victims seemed to haunt him in his dying hour, interposing between him
and God; and with distorted face, clenched hands, and gnashing teeth, he
passed away to his long account.

From the bedside of the corpse Mr. Balch went--late as it was--to the
office of the chief of police. There he learned, to his great satisfaction,
that the governor was in town; and at an early hour the next morning he
procured a requisition for the arrest of Mr. Stevens, which he put into the
hands of the man with the keen grey eyes for the purpose of securing the
criminal; and with the result of his efforts the reader is already
acquainted.



CHAPTER XXXVI.

And the last.


With such celerity did Mr. Balch work in behalf of his wards, that he soon
had everything in train for the recovery of the property.

At first George Stevens was inclined to oppose the execution of the will,
but he was finally prevailed upon by his advisers to make no difficulty
respecting it, and quietly resign what he must inevitably sooner or later
relinquish. Lizzie Stevens, on the contrary, seemed rather glad that an
opportunity was afforded to do justice to her old playmates, and won the
good opinion of all parties by her gentleness and evident anxiety to atone
for the wrong done them by her father. Even after the demands of the
executors of Mr. Garie were fully satisfied, such had been the thrift of
her father that there still remained a comfortable support for her and her
brother.

To poor Clarence this accession of fortune brought no new pleasure; he
already had sufficient for his modest wants; and now that his greatest hope
in life had been blighted, this addition of wealth became to him rather a
burden than a pleasure.

He was now completely excluded from the society in which he had so long
been accustomed to move; the secret of his birth had become widely known,
and he was avoided by his former friends and sneered at as a "<DW65>." His
large fortune kept some two or three whites about him, but he knew they
were leeches seeking to bleed his purse, and he wisely avoided their
society.

He was very wretched and lonely: he felt ashamed to seek the society of
<DW52> men now that the whites despised and rejected him, so he lived
apart from both classes of society, and grew moody and misanthropic.

Mr. Balch endeavoured to persuade him to go abroad--to visit Europe: he
would not. He did not confess it, but the truth was, he could not tear
himself away from the city where little Birdie dwelt, where he now and then
could catch a glimpse of her to solace him in his loneliness. He was
growing paler and more fragile-looking each day, and the doctor at last
frankly told him that, if he desired to live, he must seek some warmer
climate for the winter.

Reluctantly Clarence obeyed; in the fall he left New York, and during the
cold months wandered through the West India islands. For a while his health
improved, but when the novelty produced by change of scene began to decline
he grew worse again, and brooded more deeply than ever over his bitter
disappointment, and consequently derived but little benefit from the
change; the spirit was too much broken for the body to mend--his heart was
too sore to beat healthily or happily.

He wrote often now to Emily and her husband, and seemed desirous to atone
for his past neglect. Emily had written to him first; she had learned of
his disappointment, and gave him a sister's sympathy in his loneliness and
sorrow.

The chilly month of March had scarcely passed away when they received a
letter from him informing them of his intention to return. He wrote, "I am
no better, and my physician says that a longer residence here will not
benefit me in the least--that I came _too late_. I cough, cough, cough,
incessantly, and each day become more feeble. I am coming home, Emmy;
coming home, I fear, to die. I am but a ghost of my former self. I write
you this that you may not be alarmed when you see me. It is too late now to
repine, but, oh! Em, if my lot had only been cast with yours--had we never
been separated--I might have been to-day as happy as you are."

It was a clear bright morning when Charlie stepped into a boat to be
conveyed to the ship in which Clarence had returned to New York: she had
arrived the evening previous, and had not yet come up to the dock. The air
came up the bay fresh and invigorating from the sea beyond, and the water
sparkled as it dripped from the oars, which, with monotonous regularity,
broke the almost unruffled surface of the bay. Some of the ship's sails
were shaken out to dry in the morning sun, and the cordage hung loosely and
carelessly from the masts and yards. A few sailors lounged idly about the
deck, and leaned over the side to watch the boat as it approached. With
their aid it was soon secured alongside, and Charlie clambered up the
ladder, and stood upon the deck of the vessel. On inquiring for Clarence,
he was shown into the cabin, where he found him extended on a sofa.

He raised himself as he saw Charlie approach, and, extending his hand,
exclaimed,--"How kind! I did not expect you until we reached the shore."

For a moment, Charlie could not speak. The shock caused by Clarence's
altered appearance was too great,--the change was terrible. When he had
last seen him, he was vigorous-looking, erect, and healthful; now he was
bent and emaciated to a frightful extent. The veins on his temples were
clearly discernible; the muscles of his throat seemed like great cords; his
cheeks were hollow, his sunken eyes were glassy bright and surrounded with
a dark rim, and his breathing was short and evidently painful. Charlie held
his thin fleshless hand in his own, and gazed in his face with an anguished
expression.

"I look badly,--don't I Charlie?" said he, with assumed indifference;
"worse than you expected, eh?"

Charlie hesitated a little, and then answered,--"Rather bad; but it is
owing to your sea-sickness, I suppose; that has probably reduced you
considerably; then this close cabin must be most unfavourable to your
health. Ah, wait until we get you home, we shall soon have you better."

"Home!" repeated Clarence,--"home! How delightful that word sounds! I feel
it is going _home_ to go to you and Em." And he leant back and repeated the
word "home," and paused afterward, as one touches some favourite note upon
an instrument, and then silently listens to its vibrations. "How is Em?" he
asked at length.

"Oh, well--very well," replied Charlie. "She has been busy as a bee ever
since she received your last letter; such a charming room as she has
prepared for you!"

"Ah, Charlie," rejoined Clarence, mournfully, "I shall not live long to
enjoy it, I fear."

"Nonsense!" interrupted Charlie, hopefully; "don't be so desponding, Clary:
here is spring again,--everything is thriving and bursting into new life.
You, too, will catch the spirit of the season, and grow in health and
strength again. Why, my dear fellow," continued he, cheerfully, "you can't
help getting better when we once get hold of you. Mother's gruels, Doctor
Burdett's prescriptions, and Em's nursing, would lift a man out of his
coffin. Come, now, don't let us hear anything more about dying."

Clarence pressed his hand and looked at him affectionately, as though he
appreciated his efforts to cheer him and felt thankful for them; but he
only shook his head and smiled mournfully.

"Let me help your man to get you up. When once you get ashore you'll feel
better, I've no doubt. We are not going to an hotel, but to the house of a
friend who has kindly offered to make you comfortable until you are able to
travel."

With the assistance of Charlie and the servant, Clarence was gradually
prepared to go ashore. He was exceedingly weak, could scarcely totter
across the deck; and it was with some difficulty that they at last
succeeded in placing him safely in the boat. After they landed, a carriage
was soon procured, and in a short time thereafter Clarence was comfortably
established in the house of Charlie's friend.

Their hostess, a dear old motherly creature, declared that she knew exactly
what Clarence needed; and concocted such delicious broths, made such
strengthening gruels, that Clarence could not avoid eating, and in a day
or two he declared himself better than he had been for a month, and felt
quite equal to the journey to Philadelphia.

The last night of their stay in New York was unusually warm; and Clarence
informed Charlie he wished to go out for a walk. "I wish to go a long
distance,--don't think me foolish when I tell you where. I want to look at
the house where little Birdie lives. It may be for the last time. I have a
presentiment that I shall see her if I go,--I am sure I shall," added he,
positively, as though he felt a conviction that his desire would be
accomplished.

"I would not, Clary," remonstrated Charlie. "Your health won't permit the
exertion; it is a long distance, too, you say; and, moreover, don't you
think, my dear fellow, that it is far more prudent to endeavour, if
possible, to banish her from your mind entirely. Don't permit yourself to
think about her, if you can help it. You know she is unattainable by you,
and you should make an effort to conquer your attachment."

"It is too late--too late now, Charlie," he replied, mournfully. "I shall
continue to love her as I do now until I draw my last breath. I know it is
hopeless--I know she can never be more to me than she already is; but I
cannot help loving her. Let us go; I may see her once again. Ah, Charlie,
you cannot even dream what inexpressible pleasure the merest glimpse of her
affords me! Come, let us go."

Charlie would not permit him to attempt to walk; and they procured a
carriage, in which they rode to within a short distance of the house. The
mansion of Mr. Bates appeared quite gloomy as they approached it. The
blinds were down, and no lights visible in any part of the house.

"I am afraid they are out of town," remarked Charlie, when Clarence pointed
out the house; "everything looks so dull about it. Let us cross over to the
other pavement." And they walked over to the other side of the street, and
gazed upward at the house.

"Let us sit down here," suggested Clarence,--"here, on this broad stone;
it is quite dark now, and no one will observe us."

"No, no!" remonstrated Charlie; "the stone is too damp and cold."

"Is it?" said Clarence vacantly. And taking out his handkerchief, he spread
it out, and, in spite of Charlie's dissuasions, sat down upon it.

"Charlie," said he, after gazing at the house a long time in silence, "I
have often come here and remained half the night looking at her windows.
People have passed by and stared at me as though they thought me crazy; I
was half crazy then, I think. One night I remember I came and sat here for
hours; far in the night I saw her come to the window, throw up the
casement, and look out. That was in the summer, before I went away, you
know. There she stood in the moonlight, gazing upward at the sky, so pale,
so calm and holy-looking, in her pure white dress, that I should not have
thought it strange if the heavens had opened, and angels descended and
borne her away with them on their wings." And Clarence closed his eyes as
he concluded, to call back upon the mirror of his mind the image of little
Birdie as she appeared that night.

They waited a long while, during which there was no evidence exhibited that
there was any one in the house. At last, just as they were about to move
away, they descried the glimmer of a light in the room which Clarence
declared to be her room. His frame trembled with expectation, and he walked
to and fro opposite the house with an apparent strength that surprised his
companion. At length the light disappeared again, and with it Clarence's
hopes.

"Now then we must go," said Charlie, "it is useless for you to expose
yourself in this manner. I insist upon your coming home."

Reluctantly Clarence permitted himself to be led across the street again.
As they were leaving the pavement, he turned to look back again, and,
uttering a cry of surprise and joy, he startled Charlie by clutching his
arm. "Look! look!" he cried, "there she is--my little Birdie." Charlie
looked up at the window almost immediately above them, and observed a
slight pale girl, who was gazing up the street in an opposite direction.

"Little Birdie--little Birdie," whispered Clarence, tenderly. She did not
look toward them, but after standing there a few seconds, moved from
between the curtains and disappeared.

"Thank God for that!" exclaimed Clarence, passionately, "I knew--I knew I
should see her. _I knew it_," repeated he, exultingly; and then, overcome
with joy, he bowed his head upon Charlie's shoulder and wept like a child.
"Don't think me foolish, Charlie," apologized he, "I cannot help it. I will
go home now. Oh, brother, I feel so much happier." And with a step less
faint and trembling, he walked back to the carriage.

The following evening he was at home, but so enfeebled with the exertions
of the last two days, as to be obliged to take to his bed immediately after
his arrival. His sister greeted him affectionately, threw her arms about
his neck and kissed him tenderly; years of coldness and estrangement were
forgotten in that moment, and they were once more to each other as they
were before they parted.

Emily tried to appear as though she did not notice the great change in his
appearance, and talked cheerfully and encouragingly in his presence; but
she wept bitterly, when alone, over the final separation which she foresaw
was not far distant.

The nest day Doctor Burdett called, and his grave manner and apparent
disinclination to encourage any hope, confirmed the hopeless impression
they already entertained.

Aunt Ada came from Sudbury at Emily's request; she knew her presence would
give pleasure to Clarence, she accordingly wrote her to come, and she and
Emily nursed by turns the failing sufferer.

Esther and her husband, Mrs. Ellis and Caddy, and even Kinch, were
unremitting in their attentions, and did all in their power to amuse and
comfort him. Day by day he faded perceptibly, grew more and more feeble,
until at last Doctor Burdett began to number days instead of weeks as his
term of life. Clarence anticipated death with calmness--did not repine or
murmur. Father Banks was often with him cheering him with hopes of a
happier future beyond the grave.

One day he sent for his sister and desired her to write a letter for him.
"Em," said he, "I am failing fast; these fiery spots on my cheek, this
scorching in my palms, these hard-drawn, difficult breaths, warn me that
the time is very near. Don't weep, Em!" continued he, kissing her--"there,
don't weep--I shall be better off--happier--I am sure! Don't weep now--I
want you to write to little Birdie for me. I have tried, but my hand
trembles so that I cannot write legibly--I gave it up. Sit down beside me
here, and write; here is the pen." Emily dried her eyes, and mechanically
sat down to write as he desired. Motioning to him that she was ready, he
dictated--

"My Dear Little Birdie,--I once resolved never to write to you again, and
partially promised your father that I would not; then I did not dream that
I should be so soon compelled to break my resolution. Little Birdie, I am
dying! My physician informs me that I have but a few more days to live. I
have been trying to break away from earth's affairs and fix my thoughts on
other and better things. I have given up all but you, and feel that I
cannot relinquish you until I see you once again. Do not refuse me, little
Birdie! Show this to your father--he must consent to a request made by one
on the brink of the grave."

"There, that will do; let me read it over," said he, extending his hand for
the note. "Yes, I will sign it now--then do you add our address. Send it
now, Emily--send it in time for to-night's mail."

"Clary, do you think she will come?" inquired his sister.

"Yes," replied he, confidently; "I am sure she will if the note reaches
her." Emily said no more, but sealed and directed the note, which she
immediately despatched to the post-office; and on the following day it
reached little Birdie.

From the time when the secret of Clarence's birth had been discovered,
until the day she had received his note, she never mentioned his name. At
the demand of her father she produced his letters, miniature, and even the
little presents he had given her from time to time, and laid them down
before him without a murmur; after this, even when he cursed and denounced
him, she only left the room, never uttering a word in his defence. She
moved about like one who had received a stunning blow--she was dull, cold,
apathetic. She would smile vacantly when her father smoothed her hair or
kissed her cheek; but she never laughed, or sang and played, as in days
gone by; she would recline for hours on the sofa in her room gazing
vacantly in the air, and taking apparently no interest in anything about
her. She bent her head when she walked, complained of coldness about her
temples, and kept her hand constantly upon her heart.

Doctors were at last consulted; they pronounced her physically well, and
thought that time would restore her wonted animation; but month after month
she grew more dull and silent, until her father feared she would become
idiotic, and grew hopeless and unhappy about her. For a week before the
receipt of the note from Clarence, she had been particularly apathetic and
indifferent, but it seemed to rouse her into life again. She started up
after reading it, and rushed wildly through the hall into her father's
library.

"See here!" exclaimed she, grasping his arm--"see there--I knew it! I've
felt day after day that it was coming to that! You separated us, and now he
is dying--dying!" cried she. "Read it--read it!"

Her father took the note, and after perusing it laid it on the table, and
said coldly, "Well--"

"Well!" repeated she, with agitation--"Oh, father, it is not well! Father!"
said she, hurriedly, "you bid me give him up--told me he was
unworthy--pointed out to me fully and clearly why we could not marry: I
was convinced we could not, for I knew you would never let it be. Yet I
have never ceased to love him. I cannot control my heart, but I could my
voice, and never since that day have I spoken his name. I gave him up--not
that I would not have gladly married, knowing what he was--because you
desired it--because I saw either your heart must break or mine. I let mine
go to please you, and have suffered uncomplainingly, and will so suffer
until the end; but I _must_ see him once again. It will be a pleasure to
him to see me once again in his dying hour, and I _must_ go. If you love
me," continued she, pleadingly, as her father made a gesture of dissent,
"let us go. You see he is dying--begs you from the brink of the grave. Let
me go, only to say good bye to him, and then, perhaps," concluded she,
pressing her hand upon her heart, "I shall be better here."

Her father had not the heart to make any objection, and the next day they
started for Philadelphia. They despatched a note to Clarence, saying they
had arrived, which Emily received, and after opening it, went to gently
break its contents to her brother.

"You must prepare yourself for visitors, Clary," said she, "no doubt some
of our friends will call to-day, the weather is so very delightful."

"Do you know who is coming?" he inquired.

"Yes, dear," she answered, seating herself beside him, "I have received a
note stating that a particular friend will call to-day--one that you desire
to see."

"Ah!" he exclaimed, "it is little Birdie, is it not?"

"Yes," she replied, "they have arrived in town, and will be here to-day."

"Did not I tell you so?" said he, triumphantly. "I knew she would come. I
knew it," continued he, joyfully. "Let me get up--I am strong enough--she
is come--O! she has come."

Clarence insisted on being dressed with extraordinary care. His long
fierce-looking beard was trimmed carefully, and he looked much better than
he had done for weeks; he was wonderfully stronger, walked across the room,
and chatted over his breakfast with unusual animation.

At noon they came, and were shown into the drawing-room, where Emily
received them. Mr. Bates bowed politely, and expressed a hope that Mr.
Garie was better. Emily held out her hand to little Birdie, who clasped it
in both her own, and said, inquiringly: "You are his sister?"

"Yes," answered Emily. "You, I should have known from Clarence's
description--you are his little Birdie?"

She did not reply--her lip quivered, and she pressed Emily's hand and
kissed her. "He is impatient to see you," resumed Emily, "and if you are so
disposed, we will go up immediately."

"I will remain here," observed Mr. Bates, "unless Mr. Garie particularly
desires to see me. My daughter will accompany you."

Emily took the hand of little Birdie in her own, and they walked together
up the stairway. "You must not be frightened at his appearance," she
remarked, tearfully, "he is greatly changed."

Little Birdie only shook her head--her heart seemed too full for
speech--and she stepped on a little faster, keeping her hand pressed on her
breast all the while.

When they reached the door, Emily was about to open it, but her companion
stopped her, by saying: "Wait a moment--stop! How my heart beats--it almost
suffocates me." They paused for a few moments to permit little Birdie to
recover from her agitation, then throwing open the door they advanced into
the room.

"Clarence!" said his sister. He did not answer; he was looking down into
the garden. She approached nearer, and gently laying her hand on his
shoulder, said, "Here is your little Birdie, Clarence." He neither moved
nor spoke.

"Clarence!" cried she, louder. No answer. She touched his face--it was
warm. "He's fainted!" exclaimed she; and, ringing the bell violently, she
screamed for help. Her husband and the nurse rushed into the room; then
came Aunt Ada and Mr. Bates. They bathed his temples, held strong salts to
his nostrils--still he did not revive. Finally, the nurse opened his bosom
and placed her hand upon his heart. _It was still--quite still_: Clarence
was dead!

At first they could not believe it. "Let me speak to him," exclaimed little
Birdie, distractedly; "he will hear my voice, and answer. Clarence!
Clarence!" she cried. All in vain--all in vain. Clarence was dead!

They gently bore her away. That dull, cold look came back again upon her
face, and left it never more in life. She walked about mournfully for a few
years, pressing her hand upon her heart; and then passed away to join her
lover, where distinctions in race or colour are unknown, and where the
prejudices of earth cannot mar their happiness.

Our tale is now soon finished. They buried Clarence beside his parents;
<DW52> people followed him to his last home, and wept over his grave. Of
all the many whites that he had known, Aunt Ada and Mr. Balch were the only
ones that mingled their tears with those who listened to the solemn words
of Father Banks, "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."

We, too, Clarence, cast a tear upon thy tomb--poor victim of prejudice to
thy colour! and deem thee better off resting upon thy cold pillow of earth,
than battling with that malignant sentiment that persecuted thee, and has
crushed energy, hope, and life from many stronger hearts.

       *       *       *       *       *

Aunt Ada Bell remained for a short time with Emily, and then returned to
Sudbury, where, during the remainder of her life, she never omitted an
opportunity of doing a kindness to a <DW52> person; and when the
increasing liberality of sentiment opened a way for the admission of
 pupils to the famous schools of Sudbury, they could always procure
board at her house, and Aunt Ada was a friend and mother to them.

Walters and dear old Ess reared a fine family; and the brown baby and her
sister took numberless premiums at school, to the infinite delight of their
parents. They also had a boy, whom they named "Charlie;" he inherited his
uncle's passionate fondness for marbles, which fondness, it has been
ascertained, is fostered by his uncle, who, 'tis said, furnishes the sinews
of war when there is a dearth in the treasury of Master Walters.

Kinch and Caddy were finally united, after various difficulties raised by
the latter, who found it almost impossible to procure a house in such a
state of order as would warrant her entering upon the blissful state of
matrimony. When it was all over, Kinch professed to his acquaintances
generally to be living in a perfect state of bliss; but he privately
intimated to Charlie that if Caddy would permit him to come in at the front
door, and not condemn him to go through the alley, whenever there happened
to be a shower--and would let him smoke where he liked--he would be much
more contented. When last heard from they had a little Caddy, the very
image of its mother--a wonderful little girl, who, instead of buying candy
and cake with her sixpences, as other children did, gravely invested them
in miniature wash-boards and dust-brushes, and was saving up her money to
purchase a tiny stove with a full set of cooking utensils. Caddy declares
her a child worth having.

Charles and Emily took a voyage to Europe for the health of the latter, and
returned after a two years' tour to settle permanently in his native city.
They were unremitting in their attention to father and mother Ellis, who
lived to good old age, surrounded by their children and grandchildren.


THE END.





End of Project Gutenberg's The Garies and Their Friends, by Frank J. Webb

*** 