water!"

"I know it was--I know it!" said she, wildly; "but I did it! I wouldn't
have thought I could,--I didn't think I should get over, but I didn't
care! I could but die, if I didn't. The Lord helped me; nobody knows
how much the Lord can help 'em, till they try," said the woman, with a
flashing eye.

"Were you a slave?" said Mr. Bird.

"Yes, sir; I belonged 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 dangers?"

The woman looked up at Mrs. Bird, with a keen, scrutinizing glance, and
it did not escape her that she was dressed in deep mourning.

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

The question was unexpected, and it was thrust on a new wound; for it
was only a month since a darling child of the family had been laid in
the grave.

Mr. Bird turned around and walked to the window, and Mrs. Bird burst
into tears; but, recovering her voice, she said,

"Why do you ask that? I have lost a little one."

"Then you will feel for me. I have lost two, one after another,--left
'em buried there when I came away; and I had only this one left. I
never slept a night without him; he was all I had. He was my comfort and
pride, day and night; and, ma'am, 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. I knew I never should be good for anything, if they
did; and when I knew the papers the papers were signed, and he was sold,
I took him and came off in the night; and they chased me,--the man that
bought him, and some of Mas'r's folks,--and they were coming down right
behind me, and I heard 'em. I jumped right on to the ice; and how I got
across, I don't know,--but, first I knew, a man was helping me up the
bank."

The woman did not sob nor weep. She had gone to a place where tears
are dry; but every one around her was, in some way characteristic of
themselves, showing signs of hearty sympathy.

The two little boys, after a desperate rummaging in their pockets, in
search of those pocket-handkerchiefs which mothers know are never to
be found there, had thrown themselves disconsolately into the skirts of
their mother's gown, where they were sob