ery day; there was no escape but on foot.

Suddenly, a ball came crashing by them through the trees! Then a charge
of grape-shot cut the boughs overhead. They were exactly in the range
of the guns! It was evident they had taken the worst direction, but
there was no help for it now--it was too late to turn back. In her
agony, the mother cried aloud on God to protect her family. Mary hugged
closer the child in her arms, and trembled so she could hardly keep up.
Another crash! The shot shrieked past them, striking the trees in every
direction. The assault was fierce, the roar was incessant. The
frightened family rushed on as swiftly as possible toward a friend's
plantation, far back from the shore; but it was soon seen that they
would not have strength to reach it, even if they were not struck down
by the flying shot. The Americans were pouring their fire into these
woods, thinking the enemy would seek refuge there. The wretched
fugitives expected every moment to be the last. On they pushed through
mud and rain and screaming shot.

Soon they found they were getting more out of range of the guns. They
began to hope; yet now and then a ball tore up the trees around them,
or rolled fearfully across their path. They reached one of the houses
where their field-hands lived, with no one hurt; they were over a mile
from the mansion, and out of range. The negroes said no shot had come
that way. Unable to flee further, the family determined to stop here.
As soon as they entered, Mrs. Gibbes felt her strength leaving her, and
sank upon a low bed. Chilled to the bone, drenched, trembling with
terror and exhaustion, the family gathered around her. She opened her
eyes and looked about. She sprang up wildly.

"Oh, Mary!" she cried, "where is John?"

The little girl turned pale, and moaned: "Oh, mother! mother! _he's
left_!" She broke into crying. The negroes, quickly sympathetic, began
to wring their hands and wail.

"Silence!" said Mr. Gibbes, with stern but trembling voice. The tears
were in his own eyes. The little child now missing was very dear to
them all, and, moreover, was deemed a sacred charge, as he was one of
the orphan children of Mr. Gibbes's sister, intrusted to him on her
death-bed.

The wailing ceased; there was silence, broken only by sobs, and the
master asked:

"Who is willing to go back for the child?"

No one spoke. Mr. Gibbes turned to his wife for counsel. As the two
talked in low tones, Mrs. Gibbes call