MISS OPHELIA'S letter to Mrs. Shelby had been a long time in reaching its destination; and meantime Tom was already lost to view in the swamps of the Red River.

  Mrs. Shelby was very deeply concerned, but she was then watching at the sick bed of her husband, and could do little just then. Master George, who, in the interval, had grown from a boy to a tall young man, was her constant and faithful assistant. The sudden death of Mr. Shelby a few days after, brought, of course, an absorbing pressure of other interests for a season. Then they received a letter from the lawyer to whom Miss Ophelia had referred them, saying that Tom had been sold at a public auction, and that, beyond receiving the money, he knew nothing of the affair.

  Neither George nor Mrs. Shelby could be easy at this result; and, accordingly, some six months later, George, having business for his mother down the river, visited New Orleans, and by the merest accident, fell in with a man who happened to be possessed of the desired information. With his money in his pocket, he took steamboat for Red River, resolved to find out and buy back his old friend.

  Arriving at the plantation, he was soon introduced to the house, where he found Legree in the sitting-room.

  "I understand," said the young man, "that you bought, in New Orleans, a boy named Tom. He used to be on my father's place, and I came to see if I couldn't buy him back."

  Legree's brow grew dark, and he broke out passionately: "Yes, I did buy such a fellow; and a fine bargain I had of it, too. The most rebellious, saucy, impudent dog! Put up my niggers to run away; got off two gals, worth eight hundred or a thousand dollars apiece. He owned up to that, and, when I bid him tell me where they was, he up and said he knew, but he wouldn't tell; and stood to it, though I gave him the cussedest flogging I ever gave a nigger yet. I b'lieve he's trying to die; but I don't know as he'll make it out."

  "Where is he?" asked George, impetuously. "Let me see him!"

  "He's in dat ar shed," said a little fellow who stood holding George's horse, and George, without saying another word, turned and strode to the old shed.

  Tom had been lying there two days since the fatal night; not suffering, for every nerve was blunted and destroyed. When George entered the shed, he felt his head giddy and his heart sick.

  Bending over the poor creature, George cried: "Oh, dear Uncle Tom! do wake—do speak once more! Look up! Here's Mas'r George—your own little Mas'r George. Don't you know me?"

  "Mas'r George!" said Tom, opening his eyes, and speaking in a feeble voice; "Mas'r George!" He looked bewildered.

  Slowly, however, the idea seemed to fill his soul, and at last he exclaimed: "Bless the Lord, it is—it is—it's all I wanted! They haven't forgotten me! It warms my soul; it does my old heart good! Now I shall die content!"

  "You shall not die! you must not die, nor think of it! I've come to buy you and take you home," said George, with impetuous violence.

  "O, Mas'r George, you're too late. The Lord's bought me, and he is going to take me home."

  "O, don't die ! It'll break my heart to think what you have suffered!"

  Tom grasped his hand, and said: "Ye mustn't tell Chloe, poor soul! how ye found me—'twould be so drefful to her. Only tell her ye found me going into glory; and that I couldn't stay for no one. Tell 'em all to follow me—follow me! Give my love to mas'r and dear, good missis, and everybody in the place! 'Pears like I love 'em all!"

  At this moment the flash of sudden strength which the joy of meeting his young master had infused into the dying man gave way. A sudden sinking fell upon him; he closed his eyes; and that mysterious and sublime change passed over his face, that told the approach of other worlds.

  "Who—who shall separate us from the love of Christ?" he said in a voice that contended with mortal weakness; and, with a smile, he fell asleep.

  George sat fixed with solemn awe. It seemed to him that the place was holy ground. He turned: Legree was standing behind him. Fixing his keen dark eyes on the planter's face, George simply said, pointing to the dead, "You have got all you can ever get of him. What shall I pay you for the body? I will take it away and bury it decently."

  "I don't sell dead niggers," said Legree, doggedly. "You are welcome to bury him where and when you like."

  "Boys, " said George to two or three negroes, who were looking at the body, "help me carry him to my wagon, and get me a spade."

  One of them ran for a spade; the other two assisted George to carry the body to the wagon.

  Beyond the boundaries of the plantation, George had noticed a dry, sandy knoll, shaded by a few trees, and there they made a grave.

  They laid Tom in it, and the men shoveled away, silently. They banked it up, and laid green turf over it.

  "You may go, boys," said George, slipping a quarter into the hand of each one.

  "Witness, eternal God!" said George, kneeling on the grave of his poor friend; "oh, witness, that, from this hour, I will do what one man can do to drive this curse of slavery from our land!"

  The night after Tom's body had been carried away, Legree rode to the next town for a carouse, and had a high one. He got home late and tired; locked his door, and took out the key. He slept soundly. But, finally, there came over his sleep a shadow, a horror, an apprehension of something dreadful hanging over him. He was sure something was coming into his room.

  It was cloudy, misty moonlight, and there he saw it! something white, gliding in! It stood by his bed—a cold hand touched him; a voice said three times, in a low, fearful whisper, "Come, come, come!" And then, while he lay sweating with terror, he knew not when or how, the thing was gone. He sprang out of bed and pulled at the door. It was shut and locked and the man fell down in a swoon.

  By a singular coincidence, on the very night that this vision appeared to Legree the house-door was found open in the morning, and some of the negroes had seen two white figures gliding down the avenue toward the road.

  It was near sunrise when Cassy and Emmeline paused for a moment, in a little knot of trees near the town. It had been agreed that, in their escape, Cassy was to personate the character of a Creole lady and Emmeline that of her servant. Cassy still had enough remaining of her once splendid wardrobe to enable to personate the thing to advantage.

  She stopped in the outskirts of the town, where she had noticed some trunks for sale, and bought one. This she requested the man to send along with her. And, accordingly, thus escorted by a boy wheeling her trunk, and Emmeline behind her, carrying her carpet-bag and sundry bundles, she made her appearance at the small tavern, like a lady of importance.

  The first person she met, after her arrival, was George Shelby, who was staying there, awaiting the next boat.

  In the edge of the evening, a boat was heard coming along and George Shelby handed Cassy aboard with the politeness which comes naturally to a Kentuckian, and exerted himself to provide her with a good stateroom.

  From the moment that George got the first glimpse of Cassy, he was troubled with one of those fleeting, indefinite likenesses, by which we all have at times been perplexed. He could not keep himself from looking at her, and watching her perpetually. So closely did he observe her that Cassy became uneasy, and finally resolved to throw herself entirely on his generosity, and intrusted him with her whole history.

  George was heartily disposed to sympathize with her, and assured her that he would do all in his power to protect her.

  The next stateroom to Cassy's was occupied by a French lady, named De Thoux, who was accompanied by a fine little daughter, a child of some ten years.

  This lady, having gathered from George's conversation that he was from Kentucky, seemed disposed to cultivate his acquaintance.

  "Do you know," said Madame de Thoux to him, one day, "of any man in your neighborhood, of the name of Harris?"

  "There is an old fellow of that name, lives not far from my father's place," said George.

  "Did you ever know of his having a mulatto boy, named George?"

  "O, certainly, George Harris. I know him well; he married a servant of my mother's, but has escaped now, to Canada."

  "He has?" said Madame de Thoux, quickly. "Thank God!"

  George looked surprised, but said nothing.

  "He is my brother," said Madame de Thoux.

  "I am perfectly astonished!" said George, looking at Madame de Thoux.

  "I was sold south when he was but a boy," said Madame de Thoux. "I was bought by a good and generous man. He took me with him to the West Indies, set me free, and married me. It is but lately that he died; and I was coming up to Kentucky to see if I could find and redeem my brother. Tell me what sort of a man—"

  "A very fine young man," said George. "I know, you see, because he married in our family."

  "What sort of a girl?" said Madame de Thoux, eagerly.

  "A treasure," said George, "a beautiful, intelligent, amiable girl."

  "Was she born in your house?" asked Madame de Thoux.

  "No. Father bought her once, in one of his trips to New Orleans, and brought her up as a present to mother. She was about eight or nine years old, then. Father would never tell mother what he gave for her; but, the other day in looking over his old papers, we came across the bill of sale. He paid an extravagant sum for her, to be sure. I suppose on account of her extraordinary beauty."

  George sat with his back to Cassy, and did not see the absorbed expression of her countenance, as he was giving these details. At this point in the story she touched his arm, and with a face perfectly white with interest, said, "Do you know the names of the people he bought her of?"

  "A man by the name of Simmons, I think, was the principal in the transaction. At least, I think that was the name on the bill of sale."

  "Oh, my God!" said Cassy, and fell insensible on the floor of the cabin.