IN A LARGE, neatly painted kitchen, sat our old friend, Eliza, somewhat paler and thinner than in her Kentucky home, with a world of quiet sorrow lying under the shadow of her long eyelashes. When she raised her dark eyes to follow the gambols of her little Harry, who was sporting hither and thither over the floor, she showed a depth of firmness and steady resolve that was never there in her earlier and happier days in her old home.

  By her side sat a woman who might be between fifty-five and sixty; but hers was one of those faces that time seems to touch only to brighten and adorn. The snowy, lisse crape cap, made after the straight Quaker pattern, the plain white muslin kerchief, lying in placid folds across her bosom—the drab shawl and dress—showed plainly the community to which she belonged.

  "And so thee still thinks of going to Canada, Eliza?" she said, as she quietly looked over her peaches.

  "Yes, ma'am," replied Eliza, firmly. "I must go onward. I dare not stop."

  "And what wilt thee do, when thee gets there? Thee must think about that, daughter."

  Eliza's hands trembled, and some tears fell; but she answered, firmly: "I shall do anything I can find to do. I hope I can find something."

  "Thee knows thee can stay here as long as thee pleases," said Rachel.

  "O, thank you," said Eliza, "but,"—she pointed to Harry, "I can't sleep nights; I can't rest. Last night I dreamed I saw that man coming into the yard." she said, shuddering.

  "Poor child!" said Rachel, wiping her eyes; "but thee mustn't feel so. The Lord hath ordered it so that never hath a fugitive been stolen from our village. I trust thine will not be the first."

  The door here opened, and a little, short, round, pincushiony woman, with a cheery, blooming face, stood at the door.

  "Ruth," said Rachel, "this is friend Eliza Harris, and this is her little boy I told thee about."

  "I am glad to see thee, Eliza—very," said Ruth, shaking hands, as if Eliza were an old friend she had long been expecting; "and this is thy dear

  Simeon Halliday, a tall, straight, muscular man, in drab coat and pantaloons, and a broad-brimmed hat, now entered.

  "How art thee, Ruth?" he said warmly, "and how is John?"

  "John is well, and so are all the rest of our folks, said Ruth, cheerily.

  "Did thee say thy name was Harris?" asked Simeon of Eliza. And Eliza tremulously answered that it was, her fears, ever uppermost, suggesting that possibly there might be advertisements out for her.

  "Mother," said Simeon, standing on the porch, and calling Rachel out.

  "What dost thee want, father?" asked Rachel, as she went out on the porch.

  "This child's husband is in the settlement, and will be here to-night," said Simeon. "Shall we tell her now?"

  "Let's tell Ruth," said Rachel. "Here, Ruth, come here."

  Ruth laid down her knitting, and was on the porch in a moment.

  "Ruth, what dost thee think?" said Rachel. "Father says Eliza's husband in in the company, and will be here to-night. Shall we tell her now?"

  "Now! to be sure—this very minute."

  Rachel came where Eliza was sewing, and opening the door of a small bedroom, said gently, "Come in here with me, my daughter, I have news to tell thee.

  "Have courage, child," said Rachel, laying her hand on her head. "Thy husband is among friends, who will bring him here to-night."

  "To-night!" Eliza repeated, "to-night!" The words lost all meaning to her; her head was dreamy and confused; all was mist for a moment.

  When she awoke, she found herself snugly tucked up on the bed, with a blanket over her, and Ruth rubbing her hands with camphor. Then she fell asleep, and slept as she had not slept before, since the fearful midnight hour when she had taken her child and fled.

  She dreamed of a beautiful country—a land, it seemed to her, of rest; and there was a house which kind voices told her was a home, and she saw her boy playing, a free and happy child. She heard her husband's footsteps; she felt him coming nearer; his arms were around her, his tears falling on her face, and she awoke! It was no dream. The daylight had long faded; her child lay calmly sleeping by her side; a candle was burning dimly on the stand, and her husband was sobbing by her pillow.

  Among the passengers on the boat, which carried Haley and his human property, was a young gentlemen of fortune and family, resident in New Orleans, who bore the name of St. Clare. He had with him a daughter between five and six years of age, together with a lady who seemed to claim

  Tom had often caught glimpses of this little girl; for she was one of those busy, tripping creatures, that can be no more kept in one place than a sunbeam or a summer breeze—nor was she one, that once seen, could be easily forgotten. Her face was remarkable less for its perfect beauty of feature than for a singular dreamy earnestness of expression, which marked her out from other children, and made every one turn and look after her, as she glided hither and thither on the boat.

  Tom watched the child with daily increasing interest. He knew an abundance of simple acts to invite the interest of little people. He could cut cunning little baskets out of cherry stones, make grotesque faces on hickory nuts, or odd jumping figures out of elder pith, and his pockets were full of miscellaneous articles of attraction, which he had hoarded in days of old for his master's children, and which he now produced, one by one, as overtures for acquaintance and friendship. At last they had come to be on quite confidential terms, and one morning, Tom ventured to ask this question;

  "What's little missy's name?"

  "Evangeline St. Clare," said the little one, "though papa and everybody else calls me Eva. Now, what's your name?"

  "My name's Tom; the little chil'en used to call me Uncle Tom, way back thar in Kentuck."

  "Then I mean to call you Uncle Tom, because, you see, I like you," said Eva. "So, Uncle Tom, where are you going?"

  "I don't know, Miss Eva."

  "Don't know?" said Eva.

  "No. I am going to be sold to somebody; but I don't know who."

  "My papa can buy you," said Eva, quickly; "and if he buys you, you will have good times. I mean to ask him to, this very day."

  "Thank you, my little lady," said Tom.

  The boat here stopped at a small landing to take on wood, and Eva, hearing her father's voice, bounded nimbly away. Tom rose up, and went forward to offer his services in wooding, and soon was busy among the hands.

  Eva and her father were standing together by the railing to see the boat start from the landing-place, when, by some sudden movement, the little one lost her balance, and fell sheer over the side of the boat into the water. Her father, scarce knowing what he did, was plunging in after her, but was held back by those behind him, who saw that more efficient aid had followed his child.

  Tom was standing just under her on the lower deck, as she fell. He saw her strike the water, and sink, and was after her in a moment. A broadchested, strong-armed fellow, it was nothing for him to keep afloat in the

  water, till, in a moment or two, the child rose to the surface, and he caught her in his arms, and swimmimg with her to the side of the boat, handed her up, all dripping, to the grasp of hundreds of hands which were stretched out to receive her. A few moments more, and her father bore her, dripping and senseless, to the ladies' cabin.

  The next day the steamer drew near to New Orleans, and on the lower deck sat our friend Tom, with his arms folded, and anxiously, from time to time, turning his eyes toward a group on the other side of the boat.

  There stood the fair Evangeline, a little paler than the day before, but showing no other traces of the accident which had befallen her. A graceful, elegantly formed young man stood by her, while a large pocket-book lay open before him. It was quite evident at a glance that the man was Eva's father. He was listening to Haley, who was expatiating on the quality of the article for which they were bargaining.

  "All the moral and Christian virtues bound in black morocco, complete!" he said, when Haley had finished. "Well, now, my good fellow, what's to be paid for this wonder?"

  "Wal," said Haley, "if I should say thirteen hundred dollars for that ar fellow, I shouldn't but just save myself."

  "Papa, do buy him, no matter what you pay," whispered Eva, softly. "You have money enough for that, I know. I want him."

  "What for, Pussy? Are you going to use him for a rattle-box or a rocking horse, or what?"

  "I want to make him happy."

  "An original reason, certainly."

  Here the trader handed up the certificate, signed by Mr. Shelby, which the young man took with the tips of his fingers, and glanced over carelessly. "There, count your money, old boy!" he added, as he handed a roll of bills to the trader.

  "All right," said Haley, his face beaming with delight; and pulling out an old inkhorn, he proceeded to fill out a bill of sale.

  Taking his daughter's hand, St. Clare stepped across the boat, and putting the tip of his finger under Tom's chin, said, good-humoredly, "Look up, Tom, and see how you like your new master! "

  Tom looked up, and felt the tears start in his eyes, as he said, heartily, "God bless you, mas'r!"

  "Well, I hope he will. What's your name? Tom! Quite as likely to do it for your asking as for mine, from all accounts. Can you drive horses, Tom?"

  "I've allays been used to horses," said Tom.

  "Well, I think I shall put you in coachy on condition that you won't be drunk more than once a week."

  Tom looked surprised and rather hurt, and said: "I never drink, mas'r."

   "Never mind, boy, " added St. Clare, good-humoredly, seeing that Tom looked grave, "I don't doubt you mean to do well."

  "I sartin do, mas'r, " replied Tom.

  "And you shall have good times," said Eva. "Papa is very good to everybody, only he always will laugh at them."

  "Papa is much obliged to you for his recommendation," said St. Clare, laughing, as he turned on his heel and walked away.