THE LIGHT of the cheerful fire shone on the rug and carpet of a cosy parlor, as Senator Bird was drawing off his boots, preparatory to inserting his feet in a pair of handsome new slippers, which his wife had been working for him while he was away on his senatorial tour. Mrs. Bird was meantime superintending the arrangements of the table.

  "Well," said Mrs. Bird, "what have they been doing in the senate?"

  "Nothing of very much importance."

  "Is it true that they have passed a law forbidding people to give meat and drink to those poor colored folks that come along?"

  "There has been a law passed, forbidding people to help off the slaves that come from Kentucky."

  "What is the law? It don't forbid us sheltering these poor creatures a night, does it, and giving them something to eat and a few old clothes, and sending them quietly about their business?"

  "Why, yes; that would be aiding and abetting, you know."

  "Now, John, I want to know if you think such a law as that is right or Christian?"

  "Well, I can state to you a very clear argument to show—"

  "O, nonsense, John! You can talk all night, but you wouldn't do it. I put it to you, John, would you now turn away a poor, shivering, hungry creature from your door, because he was a runaway? Would you, now?"

  "Of course it would be a painful duty," began Mr. Bird.

  "Duty, John! don't use that word! You know it isn't a duty—it can't be a duty! If folks want to keep their slaves from running away, let them treat them right—that's my doctrine."

  At this juncture, old Cudjoe, the black servant, put his woolly head in at the door, and wished missis would come to the kitchen.

  After a moment Mrs. Bird's voice was heard at the door in quick, earnest tones, calling, "John! John! I do wish you would come here a moment."

  Mr. Bird laid down his paper, and went out to the kitchen, and started, quite amazed at the sight that presented itself. A young and slender woman, with garments torn and frozen, with one shoe gone, and the stocking torn away from the cut and bleeding foot, was lying back in a swoon upon two chairs.

  "Poor creature!" said Mrs. Bird, compassionately, as the woman slowly unclosed her large, dark eyes.

  "O, ma'am!" cried she wildly to Mrs. Bird, "do protect us! Don't let them get him!"

  "Nobody shall hurt you here, my good woman," said Mrs. Bird, encouragingly. "You are safe; don't be afraid."

  "God bless you!" said the woman, covering her face and sobbing.

  "You need not be afraid of anything here; we are your friends. Tell me where you came from, and what you want," said Mrs. Bird, gently.

  "I came from Kentucky," said the woman.

  "When?" asked Mr. Bird.

  "To-night."

  "How did you come?"

  "I crossed on the ice."

  "Crossed on the ice?" said every one present.

  "Yes," said the woman, slowly, "I did. God helping me I crossed on the ice; for they were behind me—right behind—and there was no other way."

  "Were you a slave?" asked Mr. Bird.

  "Yes, sir; I belong to a man in Kentucky."

  "Was he unkind to you?"

  "No, sir, he was a good master."

  "And was your mistress unkind to you?"

  "No, sir—no! my mistress was always good to me."

  "What could induce you to leave a good home, then, and run away, and go through such danger?"

  The woman looked up at Mrs. Bird, and her keen glance showed her that she was dressed in deep mourning.

  "Ma'am," she said suddenly, "have you ever lost a child?"

  Mrs. Bird burst into tears, but, recovering her voice, said "Why do you ask that? I have just lost a little one."

  "Then you will feel for me. I have lost two, one after another, and this one is all I have left. He was my comfort and pride, and they were going to take him away from me—to sell him—sell him down south, ma'am, to go all alone—a baby that had never been away from his mother in his life! I couldn't stand it, ma'am. So I took him and came away in the night."

  "Have you no husband?"

  "Yes, I have, but he belongs to another man. His master is real hard on him, and won't let him come to see me, hardly ever. He has grown harder and harder upon us, and threatens to sell him down south—it's like I'll never see him again."

  "Where do you mean to go?" said Mrs. Bird.

  "I'd go to Canada, if I only knew where it was. Is it very far off?"

  "Much further than you think, poor child!" said Mrs. Bird, "but we will try to think what can be done for you. Here, Dinah, make her up a bed in your room, close by the kitchen, and I'll think what to do for her in the morning."

  Mrs. Bird and her husband returned to the parlor. Mr. Bird walked up and down the room, grumbling to himself. At length, he said, "I say, wife, she'll have to get away from here, this very night."

  "To-night! How is it possible—where to?"

  "Well, I know pretty well where to," said the senator, beginning to put on his boots. "You see," he continued, "there's my old client, honest John Van Trompe, has come over from Kentucky, and set all his slaves free; and he has bought a place seven miles up the creek. It's a place that isn't found in a hurry, too. She'd be safe enough there; but the plague of the thing is, nobody could drive a carriage there to-night but me."

  "Why not? Cudjoe is an excellent driver."

  "Ay, ay, but it is this way. There is the creek to be crossed twice, and the second crossing is quite dangerous, unless one knows it as I do. Cudjoe must put in the horses about twelve o'clock, and I'll take her over, and then, to give color to the matter, he must carry me on to the next tavern, to take the stage for Columbus, so it will look as if I had had the carriage only for that."

  The senator went off to see about the carriage, and his wife quietly commenced to select and alter some wearing apparel for the outcast wanderers. She continued busily at this till the old clock in the corner struck twelve, when she heard the rattling of wheels at the door.

  "Mary," said her husband coming in, with his overcoat in his hand, "you must wake her up now; we must be off."

  Soon, arrayed in cloak, bonnet, and shawl, that had belonged to Mrs. Bird, Eliza appeared at the door with her child in her arms. Mr. Bird hurried her into the carriage, and Mrs. Bird followed on after her to the carriage steps. Eliza leaned out of the carriage, and seemed as if she were going to speak. Her lips moved, but there was no sound—and pointing upward, with a look never to be forgotten, she fell back in the seat and covered her face. The door was shut, and the carriage drove on.

  There had been a long rainy spell, and the road was one of the good old times, made of round, rough logs, arranged transversely side by side, and coated over with earth, turf, and whatsoever came to hand, and it was over this road that our senator went stumbling along, the carriage going, bump! bump! bump! and tossing the occupants from side to side.

  It was late in the night, or rather early in the morning, when the carriage, dripping and bespattered, stood at the door of a large farm-house. It took

  "Are you the man that will shelter a poor woman and her child from the slave catchers?" asked the senator.

  "I rather think I am," said Honest John, with emphasis.

  "I thought so," said the senator.

  "If there's anybody comes," said the good man, stretching his tall, muscular form upwards, "why here I'm ready for him; and I've got seven sons, each six foot high, and they'll be ready for him. Give our respects to 'em, and tell 'em it's no matter how soon they call," said John, bursting out into a great laugh.

  Weary and spiritless, Eliza dragged herself up to the door, with the child lying in a heavy sleep on her arm. The rough man opened the door of a small bedroom adjoining the large kitchen, where they were standing, and motioned to her to go in. He lighted a candle, set it on the table, and then addressed himself to Eliza.

  "Now, I say, gal, you needn't be a bit afeard, let who will come here. I am up to all that sort o' thing," said he pointing to two or three rifles over the mantel piece; "and most people know me too well to try to get anybody out of my house when I'm agin it. So you jist go to sleep now, as quiet as if yer mother was a rockin' ye," said he as he shut the door.

  The senator, in a few words, told Eliza's story.

  "I want to know?" said the good man, pitifully; "sho! now sho! That's natur, now, poor crittur! hunted down like a deer—hunted down, jist for havin' natural feelin's and doin' what no kind of a mother could help doin'! I tell yer what, these yer things make me come the nighest to swearin' o' most anything. Ye'd better jist put up here, now, till daylight, and I'll call up the old woman, and have a bed got ready for you in no time."

  "Thank you, my good friend," said the senator, "but I must be going along. I want to take the night stage for Columbus."

  "Ah, well, then, if you must, I'll go a piece with you, and show you a cross road that will take you there better than the road you came on. That road's mighty bad."

  John put on his coat and boots, and with a lantern in hand, was soon guiding the senator's carriage toward a road that ran down in a hollow, back of his dwelling. When they parted, the senator put into his hand a ten dollar bill. "It's for her," he said, briefly. Then they shook hands and parted.

  The February morning looked gray and drizzling through the window of Uncle Tom's cabin. Tom sat with his Testament open on his knee. It was yet early, and the children lay asleep together in their little rude trundle bed.

  Aunt Chloe did not answer, but sat down at the table, and "lifted up her voice and wept."

  "S'pose we must be resigned, but, O, Lord! how ken I? Missis says she will try and 'deem you in a year or two; but Lor! nobody never comes up that goes down thar! They kills 'em. I've hearn 'em tell how dey work 'em up on dem ar plantations."

  "There'll be the same God dar, Chloe, that there ar here."

  "Well," said Aunt Chloe, "s'pose dere will; but de Lord lets drefful bad things happen, sometimes. I don't seem to get no comfort dat way."

  "I'm in the Lord's hands," said Tom; "nothin' can go no furder with me than he lets it—and thar's one thing I can thank him for. It's me that's sold and goin' down, and not you nur the chil'en. Here you're safe—what comes will come only on me; and the Lord will help me—I know he will."

  Ah, brave, manly heart—smothering thine own sorrow, to comfort thy beloved ones.

  The simple morning meal now smoked on the table, for Mrs. Shelby had excused Aunt Chloe's attendance at the great house that morning. The poor soul had expended all her little energies on this farewell feast.

  "Lor, Pete," said Mose, triumphantly, "hain't we got a buster of a breakfast!" at the same time catching a fragment of the chicken.

  Aunt Chloe gave him a sudden box on the ear. "Thar now, crowing over the last breakfast yer poor daddy's gwine to have at home!"

  "O, Chloe," said Tom, gently.

  "Wal, I can't help it," said Aunt Chloe, hiding her face in her apron; "I'se so tossed about, it makes me act ugly."

  "Now" said Aunt Chloe, bustling about after breakfast, "I must put up yer clothes. Jest as like as not he'll take 'em all away. I know thar ways—mean as dirt, they is."

  Presently one of the boys called out that missis was coming down the road, and in a moment she entered the humble cottage. She looked pale and worried. "Tom," she said, "I come to—" and stopping suddenly, and regarding the silent group, she sat down in the chair, and, covering her face with her handkerchief, began to sob.

  "Lor, now, missis, don't, don't," said Aunt Chloe, bursting into tears in her turn; and for a few moments they all wept in company.

  "My good fellow," said Mrs. Shelby, "I can't give you anything to do you any good. If I give you money, it will only be taken from you. But I tell you solemnly, and before God, that I will keep track of you, and bring you back as soon as I can command the money, and till then, trust in God!"

  Here the boys called out that Mas'r Haley was coming, and then an unceremonious kick pushed open the door.

  "Come," said he, "ye nigger, yer ready? Servant, ma'am," said he, taking off his hat, as he saw Mrs. Shelby.

  Tom rose up meekly to follow his new master, and raised up his heavy box on his shoulder. His wife took the baby in her arms to go with him to the wagon, and the children, still crying, trailed on behind.

  "Get in!" said Haley to Tom. Tom climbed into the wagon, and Haley, drawing out from under the seat a heavy pair of shackles, made them fast around each ankle.

  "I'm sorry," said Tom, "that Mas'r George happened to be away. Give my love to him, missis," he said earnestly.

  Haley whipped up the horse, and with a steady, mournful look, fixed to the last on the old place, Tom was whirled away. After they had ridden about a mile, Haley suddenly drew up at the door of a blacksmith's shop, and taking out a pair of handcuffs, went into the shop to have something about them fixed.

  Tom sat mournfully outside the shop. Suddenly he heard the quick, short click of a horse's hoof behind him; and, before he could fairly awake from his surprise, young Master George sprang into the wagon, threw his arms tumultuously round his neck, and was sobbing and scolding with equal energy.

  "O, Mas'r George, this does me good!" said Tom. "I couldn't bar to go off without seein' ye!"

  "Look here, Uncle Tom," said George, speaking in a mysterious tone. "I've brought you my dollar. I told Aunt Chloe I was going to do it, and she said just to make a hole in it, and put a string through, so you could hang it round your neck, and keep it out of sight; else this mean scamp would take it away."

  "Now, Mas'r George," said Tom, "ye must be a good boy; 'member how many hearts is sot on ye. Al'ays keep close to yer mother. Don't be gettin' into any of dem foolish ways boys has of gettin' too big to mind their mothers. Tell ye what, Mas'r George, the Lord gives ye many good things twice over; but he don't give ye a mother but once."

  "Uncle Tom, you always did give me good advice, and I'll remember it."

  "I's older, ye know," went on Tom, stroking the boy's fine, curly head with his large, strong hands, but speaking in a voice as tender as a woman's.

  "O, Mas'r George, you has eberything—larnin', privileges, readin', writin'—and you'll grow up to be a great, larned, good man, and all the people on the place, and your mother and father'll be so proud on ye! Be a good mas'r, like yer father; and be a Christian, like yer mother."

  "I'll try to be real good, Uncle Tom," said George, "and don't you be discouraged. I'll have you back to the old place yet."

  Haley now came to the door with the handcuffs in his hand.

  "Well, good bye, Uncle Tom; keep a stiff upper lip," said George.

  "Good bye, Mas'r George," said Tom, looking fondly and admiringly at the boy. Away he went, and Tom looked, till the clatter of his horse's hoofs died away, the last sound or sight of home.