Cuba, and on the other side
of the continent. At the time of which I am speaking negroes were
bought and sold and driven from one state to another. Parents were
separated from their children, husbands from their wives, and if any one
was daring enough to speak a word in favour of the much-suffering race,
he ran the risk of having his house fired, and his plantations
devastated, or of being put to death, as John Brown was in subsequent
years.

My father was well aware of the danger he ran in harbouring Dio. Under
ordinary circumstances he would have hazarded much to save a slave from
being recaptured, but he felt himself doubly bound to preserve our negro
guest, and thus repay in the most effectual manner, the debt of
gratitude he owed to him for saving my mother's life and mine.

The fact of his being in the house was kept a profound secret from all
the outdoor servants, and my father knew that he could trust Peter and
Black Rose, who were the only persons in the family, besides ourselves,
including Mr Tidey and our Irish servant Biddy O'Toole. The latter was
cautioned not to speak about a negro being in the house, should any
strangers come to look for him.

"Arrah! thim spalpeens w'd be mighty claver to get onything out of Biddy
O'Toole," she answered, with a curl of her lips and cock of her nose,
while her eyes twinkled; "sure if they force themselves into the house
while the master is away, I'll bid them dare to disturb my old mither,
whose troubled with a fever. If they come near the room, I'll give them
a taste of the broomstick."

A couple of days had passed away, and we began to hope that Dio's
pursuers had given up the search, and would not suspect where he was
concealed. He was rapidly recovering under the kind treatment he
received, for he had never before in his life been so well tended.
Either Dan, Kathleen, or I took him in his food, and Peter slept in the
same room and looked after him at night, but of course in the day-time
had to attend to his usual duties. Kathleen became Dio's special
favourite. I am sure from the way he spoke of her, he would have died
to do her a service.

"She one angel, Massa Mike. If such as she lib in heaven, it mus' be
one beautiful place," he remarked to me one day.

Kathleen would sit patiently by his bedside, and sing to him with her
sweet child-voice, and then read a little or tell him a story, handing
him some cooling drink when he was thirsty.

I had one