THE REST OF OUR STORY is soon told. George Shelby, interested, as any other young man might be in the strange romance of the incident, was at pains to send to Cassy the bill of sale of Eliza; whose date and name all corresponded with her own knowledge of facts, and left no doubt in her mind as to the identity of her child. It remained now only for her to trace out the path of the fugitives.

  Madame de Thoux and she, thus drawn together by the singular coincidence of their fortunes, proceeded immediately to Canada, and began a tour of inquiry. At Amherstberg they found the missionary with whom George and Eliza had taken refuge, on their first arrival in Canada, and by his aid were enabled to trace the family to Montreal.

  George and Eliza had now been free five years. George had found steady occupation in the shop of a worthy machinist, where he had been earning a competent support for his family, which had, meantime been increased by the addition of a daughter.

  The death of her husband had left Madame de Thoux an ample fortune, which she wanted to share with George. When she asked him what way she could best help him, he answered, "Give me an education, Emily; that has always been my heart's desire. Then I can do all the rest."

  On further deliberation, it was decided that the whole family should go for some years to France, whither they sailed, carrying Emmeline with them. The good looks of the latter won the affection of the first mate of the vessel; and, shortly after entering the port, she became his wife.

  George remained four years at a French university, and, applying himself with an unremitting zeal, obtained a very thorough education.

  Political troubles in France at last led the family to seek an asylum in another country. They embarked for Africa, and finally settled in Liberia, where George became a teacher of Christianity.

  Miss Ophelia took Topsy home to Vermont with her, and the child grew in grace and favor with the family and neighborhood. At the age of womanhood she became a member of the Christian church in the place; and showed so much intelligence, activity, and zeal, and desire to do good in the world, that she was at last recommended and approved as a missionary to one of the stations in Africa.

  George Shelby had written to his mother merely a line, stating the day on which she might expect him home. Of the death scene of his old friend he had not the heart to write.

  Mrs. Shelby was seated in her parlor, where a supper table, glittering with plate and cut glass was set out, on whose arrangements our former friend, old Aunt Chloe, was presiding.

  Arrayed in a new calico dress, with clean white apron, she lingered round the arrangements of the table, merely as an excuse for talking a little to her mistress.

  "Laws, now! won't it look natural to him?" she said. "Thar—I set his plate jest whar he likes it—round by the fire. Mas'r George allers wants de warm seat. And missis has heard from Mas'r George?" she inquired.

  "Yes, Chloe, but only a line, just to say he would be home to-night, if he could—that's all."

  "Didn't say nothing about my ole man, s'pose?" said Chloe.

  "No, he didn't. He didn't speak of anything Chloe. He said he would tell it all, when he got home."

  "I'm thinking' my ole man won't know de boys and de baby. Lor, me! she's de biggest gal, now—good she is, too, and peart, Polly is. She's out to the house, now, watchin' de hoe cake. I's got jest de very pattern my ole man liked de best, a bakin'. Jest sich as I gin him the mornin' he was tuck off. Lord bless us! how I felt dat ar mornin!"

  Mrs. Shelby sighed, and felt a heavy weight on her heart at this allusion. She had felt uneasy, ever since she received her son's letter, lest something should prove to be hidden behind the veil of silence which he had drawn.

  The rattling of wheels now was heard. Mrs. Shelby ran to the door, and was folded in the arms of her son. Aunt Chloe stood anxiously straining her eyes out into the darkness.

  "Oh, poor Aunt Chloe!" said George, stopping compassionately, and taking her hand, hard and black though it was, between both his; "I'd have given all my fortune to have brought him back with me, but he's gone to a better country."

  There was a passionate exclamation from Mrs. Shelby, but Aunt Chloe said nothing.

  The party entered the supper room Aunt Chloe held out a trembling hand to her mistress, and said: "Jist as I knew't would be—sold and murdered on dem ar ole plantations."

  Chloe turned and was walking proudly out of the room, when Mrs. Shelby followed her, and took one of her hands, drew her down into a chair, and sat down beside her. "My poor old Chloe!" she said.

  Chloe leaned her head on her mistress' shoulder, and sobbed out, "Oh, missis! 'scuse me, my heart's broke—dat's all"

  "I know it is," said Mrs. Shelby, as her tears fell fast; "and I can not heal it; but Jesus can. He healeth the broken hearted and bindeth up their wounds." There was silence for a time, as all wept together. At last, George, sitting down beside the mourner, took her hand, and with simple pathos, repeated the triumphant scene of her husband's death, and his last messages of love.

  About a month after this, one evening, all the servants of the Shelby estate were gathered together in the great hall that ran through the house, to hear a few words from their young master.

  To the surprise of all he appeared among them with a bundle of papers in his hand, containing a certificate of freedom to every one on the place, which he read successively and presented, amid the sobs and tears and shouts of all present.

  Many, however, pressed around him, earnestly begging him not to send them away, and, with anxious faces, offering back their free papers.

  "My good friends," said George, "there'll be no need for you to leave me! The place wants as many hands to work it as it ever did. We need the same people in the house as we did before. But you are now free men and women. I shall pay you wages for your work, such as we shall agree upon. The advantage is, that in case of my getting in debt, or dying—things that might happen—you can not now be taken up and sold. I expect to carry on the estate, and to teach you what, perhaps it will take you some time to learn—how to use the rights that I have given you as free men and women. I expect you to be good, and willing to learn; and I trust in God that I shall be faithful and willing to teach. And now, my friends, look up and thank God for the blessing of freedom.

  "One thing more," said George, as he stopped the congratulations of the throng; "you all remember our good old Uncle Tom?"

  George then told them briefly about the scene of his death, and of his loving farewell to all on the place, and added:

  "It was on his grave, my friends, that I resolved, before God, that I would never own another slave, while it was possible to free them; that no one, through me, should ever run the risk of being parted from home and friends and dying on a lonely plantation, as he died. So, when you rejoice in your freedom, think that you owe it to that good old soul, and pay it back in kindness to his wife and children. Think of your freedom, every time you see UNCLE TOM'S CABIN; and let that be a memorial to put you all in mind to follow in his steps, and be as honest and faithful and as good a Christian as he was."