Mr. Hammond, who had
done so much for me, to urge me on! I cantered merrily past Jim
Foushee's cornfield, and, nodding to him, as be stood in the door of his
log-house, I enjoyed telling him that I was going to Louisa on a
shopping expedition. "Should I get anything for him? He could see that
Mr. Hammond had lent me Swiftfoot, so that I should soon be back, if I
could buy all I wanted in Louisa; if not, I did believe I should go on
to Catlettsburg: the ride would be so glorious!"

And glorious it was. I was happy in myself, happy in my thoughts of my
friend, happy in the physical enjoyment of the air, the woods, the sun,
the shade. Let me dwell on that ride. I have not had many happy days,
but that was one which had its fulness of content. And I succeeded in
putting Mr. Hammond's letter into the Catlettsburg post-office, made my
little purchases, and turned my horse's head homeward, reaching the end
of my journey before my father or step-mother had time to be anxious for
me, and having a chance to whisper, "All right," to Tom Salyers, as he
took my horse from me at the door of the store.

The long-expected rise came, and the strike came,--Jim Foushee heading
it, and standing sullen and determined in the midst of his party. Mr.
Hammond was prepared for them. The malcontents came to him in the store,
where he was filling Tom's place; for he had sent Tom to Catlettsburg,
avowedly to prepare the boats there to meet the rise, really to have him
out of the way. Their first word was met coolly enough.

"You will not work another stroke, unless I give you higher wages, I
understand, Foushee? And these men say the same thing? You are their
spokesman? Very well, I am satisfied; you can quit work to-morrow. I
have other hands at the mouth for the boats there, and there is no hurry
about the coal that lies here."

Foushee burst out with an oath,--

"That damned Salyers is the traitor! mean, cowardly rascal!"

But Mr. Hammond would not tell me more of what passed; perhaps he was
afraid of frightening me. This only he told me that night, when thanking
me with glance, voice, and pressure of the hand for all I had done for
him. The blood rushed quick and hot through my veins, I was delirious
with an undreamed-of happiness, which took away from me all power of
answering, of even raising my eyes to his face, and the same delirium
followed me to my pillow. He had called me his friend, his little Janet,
who was so quick and ready, so