led back in his chair to enjoy
the morning paper, when Bill Sikes entered, and, with his hat in his
hand, humbly approached the railing behind which the Mayor sat. He
rested his palsied hand upon the rail and saluted. The Mayor arose, came
forward and extended his hand. "Well, Bill, how are you?" "Mornin',
Colonel," answered he. "I come down to tell yer I'm goin'." "Going?
Where?" "I think I'll try the North, Colonel." The Mayor's face relaxed.
"Why, Bill, you are all right; no one's troubled you. If all the Negroes
were like you we would have had no trouble." "Yes, I know I'm all
right," answered Bill, "but I can't stan' seein' men who was playmates
of mine shot down on the streets like dogs by their ol' 'sociates an'
neighbors. You know, Colonel, I'm one who b'lieved in the white people
of this town, an' was ready at any time to stake ma life on that belief;
but what has took place in Wilmington an' what is still goin' on has
converted me." "Now, Bill," said the Mayor, somewhat moved, "the white
people of Wilmington had to resort to this to restore the government to
those to whom it rightfully belonged. White people must rule, Bill." "I
ain't got no objection to your rulin', but drivin' out black citizens
who have stood by yer an' been always faithful to yer is er grave
mistake. The deal yer made with these po-bocra is goin' ter give yer
trouble, Colonel, mark ma words. You ain't got no more use fer po'
whites than I have, an' I know it." "But they were the means to the end,
Bill," answered the Mayor, with a smile. "A kingdom divided agin itself
is er goin' ter fall, Colonel." "Don't be a fool and leave your home
because of unpleasantness; remember you are getting old; the North is no
place for you; you are comfortably fixed here." "Yes, Colonel, I know
that, but I'm not goin' ter stay in er place where a d--n scoundrel can
insult ma wife an' I can't pertect her, an' you know there's been a time
when I could. Good-bye, Colonel." "Good-bye, Bill; you'll regret it I'm
afraid."

Bill Sikes went back home to prepare for his journey northward.

CHAPTER XXII.

A Ship Sails.

When on the evening of December 1, 1898, the old Clyde steamer drifted
out from her docks into mid stream in the harbor of Wilmington, among
the host of passengers that stood upon her deck, with tear-dimmed eyes,
to bid adieu to the dear old town was Molly Pierrepont. Leaning upon the
shoulder of her foster mother, whose heart was too full t