The Garies and Their Friends by Frank J. Webb (page 5)

CHAPTER XXII.

An Anxious Day.

Esther Ellis, devoured with anxiety respecting the safety of her father and the Garies, paced with impatient step up and down the drawing-room. Opening the window, she looked to see if she could discover any signs of day. “It’s pitchy dark,” she exclaimed, “and yet almost five o’clock. Father has run a fearful risk. I hope nothing has happened to him.”

“I trust not. I think he’s safe enough somewhere,” said Mr. Walters. “He’s no doubt been very cautious, and avoided meeting any one–don’t worry yourself, my child, ’tis most likely he remained with them wherever they went; probably they are at the house of some of their neighbours.”

“I can’t help feeling dreadfully oppressed and anxious,” continued she. “I wish he would come.”

Whilst she was speaking, her mother entered the room. “Any news of your father?” she asked, in a tone of anxiety.

Esther endeavoured to conceal her own apprehensions, and rejoined, in as cheerful tone as she could assume–“Not yet, mother–it’s too dark for us to expect him yet–he’ll remain most likely until daylight.”

“He shouldn’t have gone had I been here–he’s no business to expose himself in this way.”

“But, mother,” interrupted Esther, “only think of it–the safety of Emily and the children were depending on it–we mustn’t be selfish.”

“I know we oughtn’t to be, my child,” rejoined her mother, “but it’s natural to the best of us–sometimes we can’t help it.” Five–six–seven o’clock came and passed, and still there were no tidings of Mr. Ellis.

“I can bear this suspense no longer,” exclaimed Esther. “If father don’t come soon, I shall go and look for him. I’ve tried to flatter myself that he’s safe; but I’m almost convinced now that something has happened to him, or he’d have come back long before this–he knows how anxious we would all be about him. I’ve tried to quiet mother and Caddy by suggesting various reasons for his delay, but, at the same time, I cannot but cherish the most dismal forebodings. I must go and look for him.”

“No, no, Esther–stay where you are at present–leave that to me. I’ll order a carriage and go up to Garie’s immediately.”

“Well, do, Mr. Walters, and hurry back: won’t you?” she rejoined, as he left the apartment.

In a few moments he returned, prepared to start, and was speedily driven to Winter-street. He found a group of people gathered before the gate, gazing into the house. “The place has been attacked,” said he, as he walked towards the front door–picking his way amidst fragments of furniture, straw, and broken glass. At the entrance of the house he was met by Mr. Balch, Mr. Garie’s lawyer.

“This is a shocking affair, Walters,” said he, extending his hand–he was an old friend of Mr. Walters.

“Very shocking, indeed,” he replied, looking around. “But where is Garie? We sent to warn them of this. I hope they are all safe.”

“Safe!” repeated Mr. Balch, with an air of astonishment. “Why, man, haven’t you heard?”

“Heard what?” asked Mr. Walters, looking alarmed.

“That Mr. and Mrs. Garie are dead–both were killed last night.”

The shock of this sudden and totally unexpected disclosure was such that Mr. Walters leaned against the doorway for support. “It can’t be possible,” he exclaimed at last, “not dead!” “Yes, _dead_, I regret to say–he was shot through the head–and she died in the wood-house, of premature confinement, brought on by fright and exposure.”

“And the children?” gasped Walters.

“They are safe, with some neighbours–it’s heart-breaking to hear them weeping for their mother.” Here a tear glistened in the eye of Mr. Balch, and ran down his cheek. Brushing it off, he continued: “The coroner has just held an inquest, and they gave a most truthless verdict: nothing whatever is said of the cause of the murder, or of the murderers; they simply rendered a verdict–death caused by a wound from a pistol-shot, and hers–death from exposure. There seemed the greatest anxiety on the part of the coroner to get the matter over as quickly as possible, and few or no witnesses were examined. But I’m determined to sift the matter to the bottom; if the perpetrators of the murder can be discovered, I’ll leave no means untried to find them.”

“Do you know any one who sat on the inquest?” asked Walters.

“Yes, one,” was the reply, “Slippery George, the lawyer; you are acquainted with him–George Stevens. I find he resides next door.”

“Do you know,” here interrupted Mr. Walters, “that I’ve my suspicions that that villain is at the bottom of these disturbances or at least has a large share in them. I have a paper in my possession, in his handwriting–it is in fact a list of the places destroyed by the mob last night–it fell into the hands of a friend of mine by accident–he gave it to me–it put me on my guard; and when the villains attacked my house last night they got rather a warmer reception than they bargained for.”

“You astonish me! Is it possible your place was assaulted also?” asked Mr. Balch.

“Indeed, it was–and a hot battle we had of it for a short space of time. But how did you hear of this affair?”

“I was sent for by I can’t tell whom. When I came and saw what had happened, I immediately set about searching for a will that I made for Mr. Garie a few weeks since; it was witnessed and signed at my office, and he brought it away with him. I can’t discover it anywhere. I’ve ransacked every cranny. It must have been carried off by some one. You are named in it conjointly with myself as executor. All the property is left to her, poor thing, and his children. We must endeavour to find it somewhere–at any rate the children are secure; they are the only heirs–he had not, to my knowledge, a single white relative. But let us go in and see the bodies.”

They walked together into the back room where the bodies were lying. Mrs. Garie was stretched upon the sofa, covered with a piano cloth; and her husband was laid upon a long table, with a silk window-curtain thrown across his face.

The two gazed in silence on the face of Mr. Garie–the brow was still knit, the eyes staring vacantly, and the marble whiteness of the face unbroken, save by a few gouts of blood near a small blue spot over the eye where the bullet had entered.

“He was the best-hearted creature in the world,” said Walters, as he re-covered the face.

“Won’t you look at her?” asked Mr. Balch.

“No, no–I can’t,” continued Walters; “I’ve seen horrors enough for one morning. I’ve another thing on my mind! A friend who assisted in the defence of my house started up here last night, to warn them of their danger, and when I left home he had not returned: it’s evident he hasn’t been here, and I greatly fear some misfortune has befallen him. Where are the children? Poor little orphans, I must see them before I go.”

Accompanied by Mr. Balch, he called at the house where Clarence and Em had found temporary shelter. The children ran to him as soon as he entered the room. “Oh! Mr. Walters,” sobbed Clarence, “my mother’s dead–my mother’s dead!”

“Hush, dears–hush!” he replied, endeavouring to restrain his own tears, as he took little Em in his arms. “Don’t cry, my darling,” said he, as she gave rent to a fresh outburst of tears.

“Oh, Mr. Walters!” said she, still sobbing, “she was all the mother I had.”

Mr. Balch here endeavoured to assist in pacifying the two little mourners.

“Why don’t father come?” asked Clarence. “Have you seen him, Mr. Walters?”

Mr. Walters was quite taken aback by this inquiry, which clearly showed that the children were still unaware of the extent of their misfortunes. “I’ve seen him, my child,” said he, evasively; “you’ll see him before long.” And fearful of further questioning, he left the house, promising soon to return.

Unable longer to endure her anxiety respecting her father, Esther determined not to await the return of Mr. Walters, which had already been greatly delayed, but to go herself in search of him. It had occurred to her that, instead of returning from the Garies direct to them, he had probably gone to his own home to see if it had been disturbed during the night.

Encouraged by this idea, without consulting any one, she hastily put on her cloak and bonnet, and took the direction of her home. Numbers of people were wending their way to the lower part of the city, to gratify their curiosity by gazing upon the havoc made by the rioters during the past night.

Esther found her home a heap of smoking ruins; some of the neighbours who recognized her gathered round, expressing their sympathy and regret. But she seemed comparatively careless respecting the loss of their property; and in answer to their kind expressions, could only ask, “Have you seen my father?–do you know where my father is?”

None, however, had seen him; and after gazing for a short time upon the ruins of what was once a happy home, she turned mournfully away, and walked back to Mr. Walters’s.

“Has father come?” she inquired, as soon as the door was opened. “Not yet!” was the discouraging reply: “and Mr. Walters, he hasn’t come back, either, miss!”

Esther stood for some moments hesitating whether to go in, or to proceed in her search. The voice of her mother calling her from the stairway decided her, and she went in.

Mrs. Ellis and Caddy wept freely on learning from Esther the destruction of their home. This cause of grief, added to the anxiety produced by the prolonged absence of Mr. Ellis, rendered them truly miserable.

Whilst they were condoling with one another, Mr. Walters returned. He was unable to conceal his fears that something had happened to Mr. Ellis, and frankly told them so; he also gave a detailed account of what had befallen the Garies, to the great horror and grief of all.

As soon as arrangements could be made, Mr. Walters and Esther set out in search of her father. All day long they went from place to place, but gained no tidings of him; and weary and disheartened they returned at night, bringing with them the distressing intelligence of their utter failure to procure any information respecting him.

CHAPTER XXIII.

The Lost One Found.

On the day succeeding the events described in our last chapter, Mr. Walters called upon Mr. Balch, for the purpose of making the necessary preparations for the interment of Mr. and Mrs. Garie.

“I think,” said Mr. Balch, “we had better bury them in the Ash-grove cemetery; it’s a lovely spot–all my people are buried there.”

“The place is fine enough, I acknowledge,” rejoined Mr. Walters; “but I much doubt if you can procure the necessary ground.”

“Oh, yes, you can!” said Mr. Balch; “there are a number of lots still unappropriated.”

“That may very likely be so; but are you sure we can get one if we apply?”

“Of course we can–what is to prevent?” asked Mr. Balch.

“You forget,” replied Mr. Walters, “that Mrs. Garie was a coloured woman.”

“If it wasn’t such a solemn subject I really should be obliged to laugh at you, Walters,” rejoined Mr. Balch, with a smile–“you talk ridiculously. What can her complexion have to do with her being buried there, I should like to know?”

“It has everything to do with it! Can it be possible you are not aware that they won’t even permit a coloured person to walk through the ground, much less to be buried there!”

“You astonish me, Walters! Are you sure of it?”

“I give you my word of honour it is so! But why should you be astonished at such treatment of the dead, when you see how they conduct themselves towards the living? I have a friend,” continued Mr. Walters, “who purchased a pew for himself and family in a white-church, and the deacons actually removed the floor from under it, to prevent his sitting there. They refuse us permission to kneel by the side of the white communicants at the Lord’s Supper, and give us separate pews in obscure corners of their churches. All this you know–why, then, be surprised that they carry their prejudices into their graveyards?–the conduct is all of a piece.”

“Well, Walters, I know the way things are conducted in our churches is exceedingly reprehensible; but I really did not know they stretched their prejudices to such an extent.”

“I assure you they do, then,” resumed Mr. Walters; “and in this very matter you’ll find I’m correct. Ask Stormley, the undertaker, and hear what he’ll tell you. Oh! a case in point.–About six months ago, one of our wealthiest citizens lost by death an old family servant, a coloured woman, a sort of half-housekeeper–half-friend. She resembled him so much, that it was generally believed she was his sister. Well, he tried to have her laid in their family vault, and it was refused; the directors thought it would be creating a bad precedent–they said, as they would not sell lots to coloured persons, they couldn’t consistently permit them to be buried in those of the whites.”

“Then Ash-grove must be abandoned; and in lieu of that what can you propose?” asked Mr. Balch.

“I should say we can’t do better than lay them in the graveyard of the coloured Episcopal church.”

“Let it be there, then. You will see to the arrangements, Walters. I shall have enough on my hands for the present, searching for that will: I have already offered a large reward for it–I trust it may turn up yet.”

“Perhaps it may,” rejoined Mr. Walters; “we must hope so, at least. I’ve brought the children to my house, where they are under the care of a young lady who was a great friend of their mother’s; though it seems like putting too much upon the poor young creature, to throw them upon her for consolation, when she is almost distracted with her own griefs. I think I mentioned to you yesterday, that her father is missing; and, to add to their anxieties, their property has been all destroyed by the rioters. They have a home with me for the present, and may remain there as long as they please.”

“Oh! I remember you told me something of them yesterday; and now I come to think of it, I saw in the Journal this morning, that a coloured man was lying at the hospital very much injured, whose name they could not ascertain. Can it be possible that he is the man you are in search of?”

“Let me see the article,” asked Mr. Walters. Mr. Balch handed him the paper, and pointed out the paragraph in question.

“I’ll go immediately to the hospital,” said he, as he finished reading, “and see if it is my poor friend; I have great fears that it is. You’ll excuse my leaving so abruptly–I must be off immediately.”

On hastening to the hospital, Mr. Walters arrived just in time to be admitted to the wards; and on being shown the person whose name they had been unable to discover, he immediately recognized his friend.

“Ellis, my poor fellow,” he exclaimed, springing forward.

“Stop, stop,” cried the attendant, laying his hand upon Mr. Walters’s shoulder; “he is hovering between life and death, the least agitation might be fatal to him. The doctor says, if he survives the night, he may probably get better; but he has small chance of life. I hardly think he will last twelve hours more, he’s been dreadfully beaten; there are two or three gashes on his head, his leg is broken, and his hands have been so much cut, that the surgeon thinks they’ll never be of any use to him, even if he recovers.”

“What awful intelligence for his family,” said Mr. Walters; “they are already half distracted about him.”

Mr. Ellis lay perfectly unconscious of what was passing around him, and his moans were deeply affecting to hear, unable to move but one limb–he was the picture of helplessness and misery.

“It’s time to close; we don’t permit visitors to remain after this hour,” said the attendant; “come to-morrow, you can see your friend, and remain longer with him;” and bidding Mr. Walters good morning, he ushered him from the ward.

“How shall I ever find means to break this to the girls and their mother?” said he, as he left the gates of the hospital; “it will almost kill them; really I don’t know what I shall say to them.”

He walked homeward with hesitating steps, and on arriving at his house, he paused awhile before the door, mustering up courage to enter; at last he opened it with the air of a man who had a disagreeable duty to perform, and had made up his mind to go through with it. “Tell Miss Ellis to come to the drawing-room,” said he to the servant; “merely say she’s wanted–don’t say I’ve returned.”

He waited but a few moments before Esther made her appearance, looking sad and anxious. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, with some surprise. “You have news of father?”

“Yes, Esther, I have news; but I am sorry to say not of a pleasant character.”

“Oh, Mr. Walters, nothing serious I hope has happened to him?” she asked, in an agitated tone.

“I’m sorry to say there has, Esther; he has met with an accident–a sad and severe one–he’s been badly wounded.” Esther turned deadly pale at this announcement, and leaned upon the table for support.

“I sent for you, Esther,” continued Mr. Walters, “in preference to your mother, because I knew you to be courageous in danger, and I trusted you would be equally so in misfortune. Your father’s case is a very critical one–very. It appears that after leaving here, he fell into the hands of the rioters, by whom he was shockingly beaten. He was taken to the hospital, where he now remains.”

“Oh, let me go to him at once, do, Mr. Walters!

“My dear child, it is impossible for you to see him to-day, it is long past the visiting hour; moreover, I don’t think him in a state that would permit the least agitation. To-morrow you can go with me.” Esther did not weep, her heart was too full for tears. With a pale face, and trembling lips, she said to Mr. Walters, “God give us strength to bear up under these misfortunes; we are homeless–almost beggars–our friends have been murdered, and my father is now trembling on the brink of the grave; such troubles as these,” said she, sinking into a chair, “are enough to crush any one.”

“I know it, Esther; I know it, my child. I sympathize with you deeply. All that I have is at your disposal. You may command me in anything. Give yourself no uneasiness respecting the future of your mother and family, let the result to your father be what it may: always bear in mind that, next to God, I am your best friend. I speak thus frankly to you, Esther, because I would not have you cherish any hopes of your father’s recovery; from his appearance, I should say there is but little, if any. I leave to you, my good girl, the task of breaking this sad news to your mother and sister; I would tell them, but I must confess, Esther, I’m not equal to it, the events of the last day or two have almost overpowered me.”

Esther’s lips quivered again, as she repeated the words, “Little hope; did the doctor say that?” she asked.

“I did not see the doctor,” replied he; “perhaps there may be a favourable change during the night. I’d have you prepare for the worst, whilst you hope for the best. Go now and try to break it as gently as possible to your mother.”

Esther left the room with heavy step, and walked to the chamber where her mother was sitting. Caddy also was there, rocking backwards and forwards in a chair, in an earnest endeavour to soothe to sleep little Em, who was sitting in her lap.

“Who was it, Esther?” asked, her mother.

“Mr. Walters,” she hesitatingly answered.

“Was it? Well, has he heard anything of your father?” she asked, anxiously.

Esther turned away her head, and remained silent.

“Why don’t you answer?” asked her mother, with an alarmed look; “if you know anything of him, for God’s sake tell me. Whatever it may be, it can’t be worse than I expect; is he dead?” she asked.

“No–no, mother, he’s not dead; but he’s sick, very sick, mother. Mr. Walters found him in the hospital.”

“In the hospital! how came he there? Don’t deceive me, Esther, there’s something behind all this; are you telling me the truth? is he still alive?”

“Mother, believe me, he is still alive, but how long he may remain so, God only knows.” Mrs. Ellis, at this communication, leant her head upon the table, and wept uncontrollably. Caddy put down her little charge, and stood beside her mother, endeavouring to soothe her, whilst unable to restrain her own grief.

“Let us go to him, Esther,” said her mother, rising; “I must see him–let us go at once.”

“We can’t, mother; Mr. Walters says it’s impossible for us to see him to-day; they don’t admit visitors after a certain hour in the morning.”

“They _must_ admit me: I’ll tell them I’m his wife; when they know that, they _can’t_ refuse me.” Quickly dressing themselves, Esther, Caddy, and their mother were about to start for the hospital, when Mr. Walters entered.

“Where are you all going?” he asked.

“To the hospital,” answered Mrs. Ellis; “I must see my husband.”

“I have just sent there, Ellen, to make arrangements to hear of him every hour. You will only have the grief of being refused admission if you go; they’re exceedingly strict–no one is admitted to visit a patient after a certain hour; try and compose yourselves; sit down, I want to talk to you for a little while.”

Mrs. Ellis mechanically obeyed; and on sitting down, little Em crept into her lap, and nestled in her arms.

“Ellen,” said Mr. Walters, taking a seat by her; “it’s useless to disguise the fact that Ellis is in a precarious situation–how long he may be sick it is impossible to say; as soon as it is practicable, should he get better, we will bring him here. You remember, Ellen, that years ago, when I was young and poor, Ellis often befriended me–now ’tis my turn. You must all make up your minds to remain with me–for ever, if you like–for the present, whether you like it or not. I’m going to be dreadfully obstinate, and have my own way completely about the matter. Here I’ve a large house, furnished from top to bottom with every comfort. Often I’ve wandered through it, and thought myself a selfish old fellow to be surrounded with so much luxury, and keep it entirely to myself. God has blessed me with abundance, and to what better use can it be appropriated than the relief of my friends? Now, Ellen, you shall superintend the whole of the establishment, Esther shall nurse her father, Caddy shall stir up the servants, and I’ll look on and find my happiness in seeing you all happy. Now, what objection can you urge against that arrangement?” concluded he, triumphantly.

“Why, we shall put you to great inconvenience, and place ourselves under an obligation we can never repay,” answered Mrs. Ellis.

“Don’t despair of that–never mind the obligation; try and be as cheerful as you can; to-morrow we shall see Ellis, and perhaps find him better; let us at least hope for the best.”

Esther looked with grateful admiration at Mr. Walters, as he left the room. “What a good heart he has, mother,” said she, as he closed the door behind him; “just such a great tender heart as one should expect to find in so fine a form.”

Mrs. Ellis and her daughters were the first who were found next day, at the office of the doorkeeper of the hospital waiting an opportunity to see their sick friends.

“You’re early, ma’am,” said a little bald-headed official, who sat at his desk fronting the door; “take a chair near the fire–it’s dreadful cold this morning.”

“Very cold,” replied Esther, taking a seat beside her mother; “how long will it be before we can go in?”

“Oh, you’ve good an hour to wait–the doctor hasn’t come yet,” replied the door-keeper. “How is my husband?” tremblingly inquired Mrs. Ellis.

“Who is your husband?–you don’t know his number, do you? Never know names here–go by numbers.”

“We don’t know the number,” rejoined Esther; “my father’s name is Ellis; he was brought here two or three nights since–he was beaten by the mob.”

“Oh, yes; I know now who you mean–number sixty–bad case that, shocking bad case–hands chopped–head smashed–leg broke; he’ll have to cross over, I guess–make a die of it, I’m afraid.”

Mrs. Ellis shuddered, and turned pale, as the man coolly discussed her husband’s injuries, and their probable fatal termination. Caddy, observing her agitation, said, “Please, sir, don’t talk of it; mother can’t bear it.”

The man looked at them compassionately for a few moments–then continued: “You mustn’t think me hard-hearted–I see so much of these things, that I can’t feel them as others do. This is a dreadful thing to you, no doubt, but it’s an every-day song to me–people are always coming here mangled in all sorts of ways–so, you see, I’ve got used to it–in fact, I’d rather miss ’em now if they didn’t come. I’ve sat in this seat every day for almost twenty years;” and he looked on the girls and their mother as he gave them this piece of information as if he thought they ought to regard him henceforth with great reverence.

Not finding them disposed to converse, the doorkeeper resumed the newspaper he was reading when they entered, and was soon deeply engrossed in a horrible steam-boat accident.

The sound of wheels in the courtyard attracting his attention, he looked up, and remarked: “Here’s the doctor–as soon as he has walked the wards you’ll be admitted.”

Mrs. Ellis and her daughters turned round as the door opened, and, to their great joy, recognized Doctor Burdett.

“How d’ye do?” said he, extending his hand to Mrs. Ellis–“what’s the matter? Crying!” he continued, looking at their tearful faces; “what has happened?”

“Oh, doctor,” said Esther, “father’s lying here, very much injured; and they think he’ll die,” said she, giving way to a fresh burst of grief.

“Very much injured–die–how is this?–I knew nothing of it–I haven’t been here before this week.”

Esther hereupon briefly related the misfortunes that had befallen her father.

“Dear me–dear me,” repeated the kind old doctor.

“There, my dear; don’t fret–he’ll get better, my child–I’ll take him in hand at once. My dear Mrs. Ellis, weeping won’t do the least good, and only make you sick yourself. Stop, do now–I’ll go and see him immediately, and as soon as possible you shall be admitted.”

They had not long to wait before a message came from Doctor Burdett, informing them that they could now be permitted to see the sufferer.

“You must control yourselves,” said the doctor to the sobbing women, as he met them at the door; “you mustn’t do anything to agitate him–his situation is extremely critical.”

The girls and their mother followed him to the bedside of Mr. Ellis, who, ghastly pale, lay before them, apparently unconscious.

Mrs. Ellis gave but one look at her husband, and, with a faint cry, sank fainting upon the floor. The noise partially aroused him; he turned his head, and, after an apparent effort, recognized his daughters standing beside him: he made a feeble attempt to raise his mutilated hands, and murmured faintly, “You’ve come at last!” then closing his eyes, he dropped his arms, as if exhausted by the effort.

Esther knelt beside him, and pressed a kiss on his pale face. “Father!–father!” said she, softly. He opened his eyes again, and a smile of pleasure broke over his wan face, and lighted up his eyes, as he feebly said, “God bless you, darlings! I thought you’d never come. Where’s mother and Caddy?”

“Here,” answered Esther, “here, by me; your looks frightened her so, that she’s fainted.” Doctor Burdett here interposed, and said: “You must all go now; he’s too weak to bear more at present.”

“Let me stay with him a little longer,” pleaded Esther.

“No, my child, it’s impossible,” he continued; “besides, your mother will need your attention;” and, whilst he spoke, he led her into an adjoining room, where the others had preceded her.

CHAPTER XXIV.

Charlie Distinguishes Himself.

Charlie had now been many weeks under the hospitable roof of Mrs. Bird, improving in health and appearance. Indeed, it would have been a wonder if he had not, as the kind mistress of the mansion seemed to do nought else, from day to day, but study plans for his comfort and pleasure. There was one sad drawback upon the contentment of the dear old lady, and that was her inability to procure Charlie’s admission to the academy.

One morning Mr. Whately called upon her, and, throwing himself into a chair, exclaimed: “It’s all to no purpose; their laws are as unalterable as those of the Medes and Persians–arguments and entreaty are equally thrown away upon them; I’ve been closeted at least half a dozen times with each director; and as all I can say won’t make your _protege_ a shade whiter, I’m afraid his admission to the academy must be given up.”

“It’s too bad,” rejoined Mrs. Bird. “And who, may I ask, were the principal opposers?”

“They all opposed it, except Mr. Weeks and Mr. Bentham.”

“Indeed!–why they are the very ones that I anticipated would go against it tooth and nail. And Mr. Glentworth–surely he was on our side?”

“He!–why, my dear madam, he was the most rabid of the lot. With his sanctified face and canting tongue!”

“I’m almost ashamed to own it–but it’s the truth, and I shouldn’t hesitate to tell it–I found the most pious of the directors the least accessible; as to old Glentworth, he actually talked to me as if I was recommending the committal of some horrid sin. I’m afraid I shall be set down by him as a rabid Abolitionist, I got so warm on the subject. I’ve cherished as strong prejudices against coloured people as any one; but I tell you, seeing how contemptible it makes others appear, has gone a great way towards eradicating it in me. I found myself obliged to use the same arguments against it that are used by the Abolitionists, and in endeavouring to convince others of the absurdity of their prejudices, I convinced myself.”

“I’d set my heart upon it,” said Mrs. Bird, in a tone of regret; “but I suppose I’ll have to give it up. Charlie don’t know I’ve made application for his admission, and has been asking me to let him go. A great many of the boys who attend there have become acquainted with him, and it was only yesterday that Mr. Glentworth’s sons were teasing me to consent to his beginning there the next term. The boys,” concluded she, “have better hearts than their parents.”

“Oh, I begin to believe it’s all sham, this prejudice; I’m getting quite disgusted with myself for having had it–or rather thinking I had it. As for saying it is innate, or that there is any natural antipathy to that class, it’s all perfect folly; children are not born with it, or why shouldn’t they shrink from a black nurse or playmate? It’s all bosh,” concluded he, indignantly, as he brought his cane down with a rap.

“Charlie’s been quite a means of grace to you,” laughingly rejoined Mrs. Bird, amused at his vehemence of manner. “Well, I’m going to send him to Sabbath-school next Sunday; and, if there is a rebellion against his admission there, I shall be quite in despair.”

It is frequently the case, that we are urged by circumstances to the advocacy of a measure in which we take but little interest, and of the propriety of which we are often very sceptical; but so surely as it is just in itself, in our endeavours to convert others we convince ourselves; and, from lukewarm apologists, we become earnest advocates. This was just Mr. Whately’s case: he had begun to canvass for the admission of Charlie with a doubtful sense of its propriety, and in attempting to overcome the groundless prejudices of others, he was convicted of his own.

Happily, in his case, conviction was followed by conversion, and as he walked home from Mrs. Bird’s, he made up his mind that, if they attempted to exclude Charlie from the Sabbath-school, he would give them a piece of his mind, and then resign his superintendency of it.

On arriving at home, he found waiting for him a young lady, who was formerly a member of his class in the Sabbath-school. “I’ve come,” said she, “to consult you about forming an adult class in our school for coloured persons. We have a girl living with us, who would be very glad to attend, and she knows two or three others. I’ll willingly take the class myself. I’ve consulted the pastor and several others, and no one seems to anticipate any objections from the scholars, if we keep them on a separate bench, and do not mix them up with the white children.”

“I’m delighted to hear you propose it,” answered Mr. Whately, quite overjoyed at the opening it presented, “the plan meets my warmest approval. I decidedly agree with you in the propriety of our making some effort for the elevation and instruction of this hitherto neglected class–any aid I can render—-“

“You astonish me,” interrupted Miss Cass, “though I must say very agreeably. You were the last person from whom I thought of obtaining any countenance. I did not come to you until armed with the consent of almost all the parties interested, because from you I anticipated considerable opposition,” and in her delight, the young girl grasped Mr. Whately’s hand, and shook it very heartily.

“Oh, my opinions relative to coloured people have lately undergone considerable modification; in fact,” said he, with some little confusion, “quite a thorough revolution. I don’t, think we have quite done our duty by these people. Well, well, we must make the future atone for the past.”

Miss Cass had entered upon her project with all the enthusiasm of youth, and being anxious that her class, “in point of numbers,” should make a presentable appearance, had drafted into it no less a person than Aunt Comfort.

Aunt Comfort was a personage of great importance in the little village of Warmouth, and one whose services were called into requisition on almost every great domestic occasion.

At births she frequently officiated, and few young mothers thought themselves entirely safe if the black good-humoured face of Aunt Comfort was not to be seen at their bedside. She had a hand in the compounding of almost every bridecake, and had been known to often leave houses of feasting, to prepare weary earth-worn travellers for their final place of rest. Every one knew, and all liked her, and no one was more welcome at the houses of the good people of Warmouth than Aunt Comfort.

But whilst rendering her all due praise for her domestic acquirements, justice compels us to remark that Aunt Comfort was not a literary character. She could get up a shirt to perfection, and made irreproachable chowder, but she was not a woman of letters. In fact, she had arrived at maturity at a time when negroes and books seldom came in familiar contact; and if the truth must be told, she cared very little about the latter. “But jist to ‘blege Miss Cass,” she consented to attend her class, averring as she did so, “that she didn’t ‘spect she was gwine to larn nothin’ when she got thar.”

Miss Cass, however, was of the contrary opinion, and anticipated that after a few Sabbaths, Aunt Comfort would prove to be quite a literary phenomenon. The first time their class assembled the white children well-nigh dislocated their necks, in their endeavours to catch glimpses of the coloured scholars, who were seated on a backless bench, in an obscure corner of the room.

Prominent amongst them shone Aunt Comfort, who in honour of this extraordinary occasion, had retrimmed her cap, which was resplendent with bows of red ribbon as large as peonies. She had a Sunday-school primer in her hand, and was repeating the letters with the utmost regularity, as Miss Cass pronounced them. They got on charmingly until after crossing over the letter O, as a matter of course they came to P and Q.

“Look here,” said Aunt Comfort, with a look of profound erudition, “here’s anoder O. What’s de use of having two of ’em?”

“No, no, Aunt Comfort–that’s Q–the letter Q.”

“Umph,” grunted the old woman, incredulously, “what’s de use of saying dat’s a Q, when you jest said not a minute ago ’twas O?”

“This is not the same,” rejoined the teacher, “don’t you see the little tail at the bottom of it?”

Aunt Comfort took off her silver spectacles, and gave the glasses of them a furious rub, then after essaying another look, exclaimed, “What, you don’t mean dat ‘ere little speck down at the bottom of it, does yer?”

“Yes, Aunt Comfort, that little speck, as you call it, makes all the difference–it makes O into Q.”

“Oh, go ‘way, child,” said she, indignantly, “you isn’t gwine to fool me dat ar way. I knows you of old, honey–you’s up to dese ‘ere things–you know you allus was mighty ‘chevious, and I isn’t gwine to b’lieve dat dat ar little speck makes all the difference–no such thing, case it don’t–deys either both O’s or both Q’s. I’m clar o’ dat–deys either one or tother.”

Knowing by long experience the utter futility of attempting to convince Aunt Comfort that she was in the wrong, by anything short of a miracle, the teacher wisely skipped over the obnoxious letter, then all went smoothly on to the conclusion of the alphabet.

The lesson having terminated, Miss Cass looked up and discovered standing near her a coloured boy, who she correctly surmised was sent as an addition to her class. “Come here, and sit down,” said she, pointing to a seat next Aunt Comfort. “What is your name?”

Charlie gave his name and residence, which were entered in due form on the teacher’s book. “Now, Charles,” she continued, “do you know your letters?”

“Yes, ma’am,” was the answer.

“Can you spell?” she inquired. To this also Charlie gave an affirmative, highly amused at the same time at being asked such a question.

Miss Cass inquired no further into the extent of his acquirements, it never having entered her head that he could do more than spell. So handing him one of the primers, she pointed out a line on which to begin. The spirit of mischief entered our little friend, and he stumbled through b-l-a bla–b-l-i bli–b-l-o blo–b-l-u blu, with great gravity and slowness.

“You spell quite nicely, particularly for a little coloured boy,” said Miss Cass, encouragingly, as he concluded the line; “take this next,” she continued, pointing to another, “and when you have learned it, I will hear you again.”

It was the custom of the superintendent to question the scholars upon a portion of Bible history, given out the Sabbath previous for study during the week. It chanced that upon the day of which we write, the subject for examination was one with which Charlie was quite familiar.

Accordingly, when the questions were put to the school, he answered boldly and quickly to many of them, and with an accuracy that astonished his fellow scholars.

“How did you learn the answers to those questions–you can’t read?” said Miss Cass.

“Yes, but I can read,” answered Charlie, with a merry twinkle in his eye.

“Why didn’t you tell me so before?” she asked.

“Because you didn’t ask me,” he replied, suppressing a grin.

This was true enough, so Miss Cass, having nothing farther to say, sat and listened, whilst he answered the numerous and sometimes difficult questions addressed to the scholars.

Not so, Aunt Comfort. She could not restrain her admiration of this display of talent on the part of one of her despised race; she was continually breaking out with expressions of wonder and applause. “Jis’ hear dat–massy on us–only jis’ listen to de chile,” said she, “talks jis’ de same as if he was white. Why, boy, where you learn all dat?”

“Across the Red Sea,” cried Charlie, in answer to a question from the desk of the superintendent.

“‘Cross de Red Sea! Umph, chile, you been dere?” asked Aunt Comfort, with a face full of wonder.

“What did you say?” asked Charlie, whose attention had been arrested by the last question.

“Why I asked where you learned all dat ’bout de children of Israel.”

“Oh, I learned that at Philadelphia,” was his reply; “I learned it at school with the rest of the boys.”

“You did!” exclaimed she, raising her hands with astonishment. “Is dere many more of ’em like you?”

Charlie did not hear this last question of Aunt Comfort’s, therefore she was rather startled by his replying in a loud tone, “_Immense hosts_.”

“Did I ever–jis’ hear dat, dere’s ”mense hostes’ of ’em jest like him! only think of it. Is dey all dere yet, honey?”

“They were all drowned.”

“Oh, Lordy, Lordy,” rejoined she, aghast with horror; for Charlie’s reply to a question regarding the fate of Pharaoh’s army, had been by her interpreted as an answer to her question respecting his coloured schoolmates at Philadelphia.

“And how did you ‘scape, honey,” continued she, “from drowning ‘long wid the rest of ’em?”

“Why I wasn’t there, it was thousands of years ago.”

“Look here. What do you mean?” she whispered; “didn’t you say jest now dat you went to school wid ’em?”

This was too much for Charlie, who shook all over with suppressed laughter; nor was Miss Cass proof against the contagion–she was obliged to almost suffocate herself with her handkerchief to avoid a serious explosion.

“Aunt Comfort, you are mistaking him,” said she, as soon as she could recover her composure; “he is answering the questions of the superintendent–not yours, and very well he has answered them, too,” continued she. “I like to see little boys aspiring: I am glad to see you so intelligent–you must persevere, Charlie.”

“Yes, you must, honey,” chimed in Aunt Comfort. “I’se very much like Miss Cass; I likes to see children–‘specially children of colour–have _expiring_ minds.”

Charlie went quite off at this, and it was only by repeated hush–hushes, from Miss Cass, and a pinch in the back from Aunt Comfort, that he was restored to a proper sense of his position.

The questioning being now finished, Mr. Whately came to Charlie, praised him highly for his aptness, and made some inquiries respecting his knowledge of the catechism; also whether he would be willing to join the class that was to be catechised in the church during the afternoon. To this, Charlie readily assented, and, at the close of the school, was placed at the foot of the class, preparatory to going into the Church.

The public catechizing of the scholars was always an event in the village; but now a novelty was given it, by the addition of a black lamb to the flock, and, as a matter of course, a much greater interest was manifested. Had a lion entered the doors of St. Stephen’s church, he might have created greater consternation, but he could not have attracted more attention than did our little friend on passing beneath its sacred portals. The length of the aisle seemed interminable to him, and on his way to the altar he felt oppressed by the scrutiny of eyes through which he was compelled to pass. Mr. Dural, the pastor, looked kindly at him, as he stood in front of the chancel, and Charlie took heart from his cheering smile.

Now, to Aunt Comfort (who was the only coloured person who regularly attended the church) a seat had been assigned beside the organ; which elevated position had been given her that the congregation might indulge in their devotions without having their prejudices shocked by a too close contemplation of her ebony countenance.

But Aunt Comfort, on this occasion, determined to get near enough to hear all that passed, and, leaving her accustomed seat, she planted herself in one of the aisles of the gallery overlooking the altar, where she remained almost speechless with wonder and astonishment at the unprecedented sight of a woolly head at the foot of the altar.

Charlie got on very successfully until called upon to repeat the Lord’s Prayer; and, strange to say, at this critical juncture, his memory forsook him, and he was unable to utter a word of it: for the life of him he could not think of anything but “Now I lay me down to sleep”–and confused and annoyed he stood unable to proceed. At this stage of affairs, Aunt Comfort’s interest in Charlie’s success had reached such a pitch that her customary awe of the place she was in entirely departed, and she exclaimed, “I’ll give yer a start–‘Our Farrer,'”–then overwhelmed by the consciousness that she had spoken out in meeting, she sank down behind a pew-door, completely extinguished. At this there was an audible titter, that was immediately suppressed; after which, Charlie recovered his memory, and, started by the opportune prompting of Aunt Comfort, he recited it correctly. A few questions more terminated the examination, and the children sat down in front of the altar until the conclusion of the service.

Mrs. Bird, highly delighted with the _debut_ of her _protege_, bestowed no end of praises upon him, and even made the coachman walk home, that Charlie might have a seat in the carriage, as she alleged she was sure he must be much fatigued and overcome with the excitement of the day; then taking the reins into her own hands, she drove them safely home.

CHAPTER XXV.

The Heir.

We must now return to Philadelphia, and pay a visit to the office of Mr. Balch. We shall find that gentleman in company with Mr. Walters: both look anxious, and are poring over a letter which is outspread before them.

“It was like a thunder-clap to me,” said Mr. Balch: “the idea of there being another heir never entered my brain–I didn’t even know he had a living relative.”

“When did you get the letter?” asked Walters.

“Only this morning, and I sent for you immediately! Let us read it again–we’ll make another attempt to decipher this incomprehensible name. Confound the fellow! why couldn’t he write so that some one besides himself could read it! We must stumble through it,” said he, as he again began the letter as follows:–

“Dear Sir,–Immediately on receipt of your favour, I called upon Mr. Thurston, to take the necessary steps for securing the property of your late client. To my great surprise, I found that another claimant had started up, and already taken the preliminary measures to entering upon possession. This gentleman, Mr.—-

“Now, what would you call that name, Walters?–to me it looks like Stimmens, or Stunners, or something of the kind!”

“Never mind the name,” exclaimed Walters–“skip that–let me hear the rest of the letter; we shall find out who he is soon enough, in all conscience.”

“Well, then,” resumed Mr. Balch–“This gentleman, Mr.—-, is a resident in your city; and he will, no doubt, take an early opportunity of calling on you, in reference to the matter. It is my opinion, that without a will in their favour, these children cannot oppose his claim successfully, if he can prove his consanguinity to Mr. Garie. His lawyer here showed me a copy of the letters and papers which are to be used as evidence, and, I must say, they _are entirely_ without flaw. He proves himself, undoubtedly, to be the first cousin of Mr. Garie. You are, no doubt, aware that these children being the offspring of a slave-woman, cannot inherit, in this State (except under certain circumstances), the property of a white father. I am, therefore, very much afraid that they are entirely at his mercy.”

“Well, then,” said Walters, when Mr. Balch finished reading the letter, “it is clear there is an heir, and his claim _must_ be well sustained, if such a man as Beckley, the first lawyer in the State, does not hesitate to endorse it; and as all the property (with the exception of a few thousands in my hands) lies in Georgia, I’m afraid the poor children will come off badly, unless this new heir prove to be a man of generosity–at all events, it seems we are completely at his mercy.”

“We must hope for the best,” rejoined Mr. Balch. “If he has any heart, he certainly will make some provision for them. The disappearance of that will is to me most unaccountable! I am confident it was at his house. It seemed so singular that none of his papers should be missing, except that–there were a great many others, deeds, mortgages, &c. scattered over the floor, but no will!”

The gentlemen were thus conversing, when they heard a tap at the door. “Come in!” cried Mr. Balch; and, in answer to the request, in walked Mr. George Stevens.

Mr. Walters and Mr. Balch bowed very stiffly, and the latter inquired what had procured him the honour of a visit.

“I have called upon you in reference to the property of the late Mr. Garie.” “Oh! you are acting in behalf of this new claimant, I suppose?” rejoined Mr. Balch.

“Sir!” said Mr. Stevens, looking as though he did not thoroughly understand him.

“I said,” repeated Mr. Balch, “that I presumed you called in behalf of this new-found heir to Mr. Garie’s property.”

Mr. Stevens looked at him for a moment, then drawing himself up, exclaimed, “I AM THE HEIR!”

“You!–_you_ the heir!” cried both the gentlemen, almost simultaneously.

“Yes, I am the heir!” coolly repeated Mr. Stevens, with an assured look. “I am the first cousin of Mr. Garie!”

“You his first cousin?–it is impossible!” said Walters.

“You’ll discover it is not only possible, but true–I am, as I said, Mr. Garie’s first cousin!”

“If you are that, you are more,” said Walters, fiercely–“you’re his murderer!” At this charge Mr. Stevens turned deathly pale. “Yes,” continued Walters; “you either murdered him, or instigated others to do so! It was you who directed the rioters against both him and me–I have proof of what I say and can produce it. Now your motive is clear as day–you wanted his money, and destroyed him to obtain it! His blood is on your hands!” hissed Walters through his clenched teeth.

In the excitement consequent upon such a charge, Mr. Stevens, unnoticed by himself, had overturned a bottle of red ink, and its contents had slightly stained his hands. When Walters charged him with having Mr. Garie’s blood upon them, he involuntarily looked down and saw his hands stained with red. An expression of intense horror flitted over his face when he observed it; but quickly regaining his composure, he replied, “It’s only a little ink.”

“Yes, I know _that_ is ink,” rejoined Walters, scornfully; “look at him, Balch,” he continued, “he doesn’t dare to look either of us in the face.”

“It’s false,” exclaimed Stevens, with an effort to appear courageous; “it’s as false as hell, and any man that charges me with it is a liar.”

The words had scarcely passed his lips, when Walters sprang upon him with the ferocity of a tiger, and seizing him by the throat, shook and whirled him about as though he were a plaything.

“Stop, stop! Walters,” cried Mr. Balch, endeavouring to loose his hold upon the throat of Mr. Stevens, who was already purple in the face; “let him go, this violence can benefit neither party. Loose your hold.” At this remonstrance, Walters dashed Stevens from him into the farthest corner of the room, exclaiming, “Now, go and prosecute me if you dare, and I’ll tell for what I chastised you; prosecute me for an assault, if you think you can risk the consequences.”

Mr. Balch assisted him from the floor and placed him in a chair, where he sat holding his side, and panting for breath. When he was able to speak, he exclaimed, with a look of concentrated malignity, “Remember, we’ll be even some day; I never received a blow and forgot it afterwards, bear that in mind.”

“This will never do, gentlemen,” said Mr. Balch, soothingly: “this conduct is unworthy of you. You are unreasonable both of you. When you have cooled down we will discuss the matter as we should.”

“You’ll discuss it alone then,” said Stevens, rising, and walking to the door: “and when you have any further communication to make, you must come to me.”

“Stop, stop, don’t go,” cried Mr. Balch, following him out at the door, which they closed behind them; “don’t go away in a passion, Mr. Stevens. You and Walters are both too hasty. Come in here and sit down,” said he, opening the door of a small adjoining room, “wait here one moment, I’ll come back to you.”

“This will never do, Walters,” said he, as he re-entered his office; “the fellow has the upper hand of us, and we must humour him; we should suppress our own feelings for the children’s sake. You are as well aware as I am of the necessity of some compromise–we are in his power for the present, and must act as circumstances compel us to.”

“I can’t discuss the matter with him,” interrupted Walters, “he’s an unmitigated scoundrel. I couldn’t command my temper in his presence for five minutes. If you can arrange anything with him at all advantageous to the children, I shall be satisfied, it will be more than I expect; only bear in mind, that what I have in my hands belonging to Garie we must retain, he knows nothing of that.”

“Very well,” rejoined Mr. Balch, “depend upon it I’ll do my best;” and closing the door, he went back to Mr. Stevens.

“Now, Mr. Stevens,” said he, drawing up a chair, “we will talk over this matter dispassionately, and try and arrive at some amicable arrangement: be kind enough to inform me what your claims are.”

“Mr. Balch, _you_ are a gentleman,” began Mr. Stevens, “and therefore I’m willing to discuss the matter thoroughly with you. You’ll find me disposed to do a great deal for these children: but I wish it distinctly understood at the beginning, that whatever I may give them, I bestow as a favour. I concede nothing to them as a right, legally they have not the slightest claim upon me; of that you, who are an excellent lawyer, must be well aware.”

“We won’t discuss that point at present, Mr. Stevens. I believe you intimated you would be kind enough to say upon what evidence you purposed sustaining your claims?”

“Well, to come to the point, then,” said Stevens; “the deceased Mr. Garie was, as I before said, my first cousin. His father and my mother were brother and sister. My mother married in opposition to her parents’ desires; they cut her off from the family, and for years there was no communication between them. At my father’s death, my mother made overtures for a reconciliation, which were contemptuously rejected, at length she died. I was brought up in ignorance of who my grandparents were; and only a few months since, on the death of my father’s sister, did I make the discovery. Here,” said he, extending the packet of letters which, the reader will remember once agitated, him so strangely, “here are the letters that passed between my mother and her father.”

Mr. Balch took up one and read:–

“_Savannah_, 18–

“MADAM,–Permit me to return this letter (wherein you declare yourself the loving and repentant daughter of Bernard Garie) and at the same time inform you, that by your own. acts you have deprived yourself of all claim to that relation. In opposition to my wishes, and in open defiance of my express commands, you chose to unite your fortune with one in every respect your inferior. If that union has not resulted as happily as you expected, you must sustain yourself by the reflection that you are the author of your own misfortunes and alone to blame for your present miserable condition.–Respectfully yours,

“BERNARD GARIE.”

Mr. Balch read, one after another, letters of a similar purport–in fact, a long correspondence between Bernard Garie and the mother of Mr. Stevens. When he had finished, the latter remarked, “In addition to those, I can produce my mother’s certificate of baptism, her marriage certificate, and every necessary proof of my being her son. If that does not suffice to make a strong case, I am at a loss to imagine what will.”

Mr. Balch pondered a few moments, and then inquired, looking steadily at Mr. Stevens, “How long have you known of this relationship?”

“Oh, I’ve known it these three years.”

“Three years! why, my dear sir, only a few moments ago you said a few months.”

“Oh, did I?” said Mr. Stevens, very much confused; “I meant, or should have said, three years.”

“Then, of course you were aware that Mr. Garie was your cousin when he took the house beside you?”

“Oh, yes–that is–yes–yes; I _was_ aware of it.”

“And did you make any overtures of a social character?” asked Mr. Balch.

“Well, yes–that is to say, my wife did.”

“_Where were you the night of the murder?_”

Mr. Stevens turned pale at this question, and replied, hesitatingly, “Why, at home, of course.”

“You were at home, and saw the house of your cousins assaulted, and made no effort to succour them or their children. The next morning you are one of the coroner’s inquest, and hurry through the proceedings, never once saying a word of your relationship to them, nor yet making any inquiry respecting the fate of the children. _It is very singular_.”

“I don’t see what this cross-questioning is to amount to; it has nothing to do with my claim as heir.”

“We are coming to that,” rejoined Mr. Balch. “This, as I said, is very singular; and when I couple it with some other circumstances that have come to my knowledge, it is more than singular–_it is suspicious_. Here are a number of houses assaulted by a mob. Two or three days before the assault takes place, a list in your handwriting, and which is headed, ‘_Places to be attacked_,’ is found, under circumstances that leave no doubt that it came directly from you. Well, the same mob that attacks these places–_marked out by you_–traverse a long distance to reach the house of your next-door neighbour. They break into it, and kill him; and you, who are aware at the time that he is your own cousin, do not attempt to interpose to prevent it, although it can be proved that you were all-powerful with the marauders. No! you allow him to be destroyed without an effort to save him, and immediately claim his property. Now, Mr. Stevens, people disposed to be suspicions–seeing how much you were to be the gainer by his removal, and knowing you had some connection with this mob–might not scruple to say that _you_ instigated the attack by which he lost his life; and I put it to you–now don’t you think that, if it was any one else, you would say that the thing looked suspicious?”

Mr. Stevens winced at this, but made no effort to reply.

Mr. Balch continued, “What I was going to remark is simply this. As we are in possession of these facts, and able to prove them by competent witnesses, we should not be willing to remain perfectly silent respecting it, unless you made what _we_ regarded as a suitable provision for the children.”

“I’m willing, as I said before, to do something; but don’t flatter yourself I’ll do any more than I originally intended from any fear of disclosures from you. I’m not to be frightened,” said Mr. Stevens.

“I’m not at all disposed to attempt to frighten you: however, you know how far a mere statement of these facts would go towards rendering your position in society more agreeable. A person who has been arrested on suspicion of murder is apt to be shunned and distrusted. It can’t be helped; people are so very squeamish–they _will_ draw back, you know, under such circumstances.”

“I don’t see how such a suspicion can attach itself to me,” rejoined Stevens, sharply.

“Oh, well, we won’t discuss that any further: let me hear what you will do for the children.”

Mr. Balch saw, from the nervous and embarrassed manner of Mr. Stevens, that the indirect threat of exposing him had had considerable effect; and his downcast looks and agitation rather strengthened in his mind the suspicions that had been excited by the disclosures of Mr. Walters.

After a few moments’ silence, Mr. Stevens said, “I’ll settle three thousand dollars on each of the children. Now I think that is treating them liberally.”

“Liberally!” exclaimed Balch, in a tone of contempt–“liberally! You acquire by the death of their father property worth one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and you offer these children, who are the rightful heirs, three thousand dollars! That, sir, won’t suffice.” “I think it should, then,” rejoined Stevens. “By the laws of Georgia these children, instead of being his heirs, are my slaves. Their mother was a slave before them, and they were born slaves; and if they were in Savannah, I could sell them both to-morrow. On the whole, I think I’ve made you a very fair offer, and I’d advise you to think of it.”

“No, Mr. Stevens; I shall accept no such paltry sum. If you wish a quick and peaceful possession of what you are pleased to regard as your rights, you must tender something more advantageous, or I shall feel compelled to bring this thing into court, even at the risk of loss; and there, you know, we should be obliged to make a clear statement of _everything_ connected with this business. It might be advantageous to _us_ to bring the thing fully before the court and public–but I’m exceedingly doubtful whether it would advance _your_ interest.”

Stevens winced at this, and asked, “What would you consider a fair offer?”

“I should consider _all_ a just offer, half a fair one, and a quarter as little as you could have the conscience to expect us to take.”

“I don’t see any use in this chaffering, Mr. Balch,” said Stephens; “you can’t expect me to give you any such sums as you propose. Name a sum that you can reasonably expect to get.”

“Well,” said Mr. Balch, rising, “you must give us fifteen thousand dollars, and you should think yourself well off then. We could commence a suit, and put you to nearly that expense to defend it; to say nothing of the notoriety that the circumstance would occasion you. Both Walters and I are willing to spend both money and time in defence of these children’s rights; I assure you they are not friendless.”

“I’ll give twelve thousand, and not a cent more, if I’m hung for it,” said Mr. Stevens, almost involuntarily.

“Who spoke of hanging?” asked Mr. Balch.

“Oh!” rejoined Stevens, “that is only my emphatic way of speaking.” “Of course, you meant figuratively,” said Mr. Balch, in a tone of irony; mentally adding, “as I hope you may be one day literally.”

Mr. Stevens looked flushed and angry, but Mr. Balch continued, without appearing to notice him, and said: “I’ll speak to Walters. Should he acquiesce in your proposal, I am willing to accept it; however, I cannot definitely decide without consulting him. To-morrow I will inform you of the result.”

CHAPTER XXVI.

Home Again.

To Charlie the summer had been an exceedingly short one–time had flown so pleasantly away. Everything that could be done to make the place agreeable Mrs. Bird had effected. Amongst the number of her acquaintances who had conceived a regard for her young _protege_ was a promising artist to whom she had been a friend and patroness. Charlie paid him frequent visits, and would sit hour after hour in his studio, watching the progress of his work. Having nothing else at the time to amuse him, he one day asked the artist’s permission to try his hand at a sketch. Being supplied with the necessary materials, he commenced a copy of a small drawing, and was working assiduously, when the artist came and looked over his shoulder.

“Did you ever draw before?” he asked, with a start of surprise.

“Never,” replied Charlie, “except on my slate at school. I sometimes used to sketch the boys’ faces.”

“And you have never received any instructions?”

“Never–not even a hint,” was the answer.

“And this is the first time you have attempted a sketch upon paper?”

“Yes; the very first.”

“Then you are a little prodigy,” said the artist, slapping him upon the shoulder. “I must take you in hand. You have nothing else to do; come here regularly every day, and I’ll teach you. Will you come?”

“Certainly, if you wish it. But now, tell me, do you really think that drawing good?” “Well, Charlie, if I had done it, it would be pronounced very bad for me; but, coming from your hands, it’s something astonishing.”

“Really, now–you’re not joking me?”

“No, Charlie, I’m in earnest–I assure you I am; it is drawn with great spirit, and the boy that you have put in by the pump is exceedingly well done.”

This praise served as a great incentive to our little friend, who, day after day thenceforth, was found at the studio busily engaged with his crayons, and making rapid progress in his new art.

He had been thus occupied some weeks, and one morning was hurrying to the breakfast-table, to get through his meal, that he might be early at the studio, when he found Mrs. Bird in her accustomed seat looking very sad.

“Why, what is the matter?” he asked, on observing the unusually grave face of his friend.

“Oh, Charlie, my dear! I’ve received very distressing intelligence from Philadelphia. Your father is quite ill.”

“My father ill!” cried he, with a look of alarm.

“Yes, my dear! quite sick–so says my letter. Here are two for you.”

Charlie hastily broke the seal of one, and read as follows:–

“MY DEAR LITTLE BROTHER,–We are all in deep distress in consequence of the misfortunes brought upon us by the mob. Our home has been destroyed; and, worse than all, our poor father was caught, and so severely beaten by the rioters that for some days his life was entirely despaired of. Thank God! he is now improving, and we have every reasonable hope of his ultimate recovery. Mother, Caddy, and I, as you may well suppose, are almost prostrated by this accumulation of misfortunes, and but for the kindness of Mr. Walters, with whom we are living, I do not know what would have become of us. Dear Mr. and Mrs. Garie–[Here followed a passage that was so scored and crossed as to be illegible. After a short endeavour to decipher it, he continued:] We would like to see you very much, and mother grows every day more anxious for your return. I forgot to add, in connection with the mob, that Mr. Walters’s house was also attacked, but unsuccessfully, the rioters having met a signal repulse. Mother and Caddy send a world of love to you. So does Kinch, who comes every day to see us and is, often extremely useful. Give our united kind regards to Mrs. Bird, and thank her in our behalf for her great kindness to you.–Ever yours,

“ESTHER.

“P.S.–Do try and manage to come home soon.”

The tears trickled down Charlie’s cheek as he perused the letter, which, when he had finished reading, he handed to Mrs. Bird, and then commenced the other. This proved to be from Kinch, who had spent all the spare time at his disposal since the occurrence of the mob in preparing it.

“To MR. CHARLES ELLIS, ESQ., at MRS. BIRD’S.

“_Philadelphia_.

“DEAR SIR AND HONNORED FRIEND.–I take This chance To Write To you To tell You that I am Well, And that we are all well Except Your father, who Is sick; and I hope you are Enjoying the same Blessin. We had An Awful fight, And I was There, and I was One of The Captings. I had a sord on; and the next Mornin we had a grate Brekfast. But nobody Eat anything but me, And I was obliged to eat, Or the Wittles would have spoiled. The Mob had Guns as Big as Cannun; And they Shot them Off, and the holes Are in The Shutter yet; And when You come Back, I will show them to You. Your Father is very bad; And I Have gone back to school, And I am Licked every day because I don’t Know my Lesson. A great big boy, with white woolly hair and Pinkish Grey eyes, has got Your seat. I Put a Pin under him one Day, And he told On me; and We Are to Have a fight tomorrow. The boys Call Him ‘Short and Dirty,’ because he ain’t tall, and never washes His Face. We Have got a new Teacher for the 5th Division. He’s a Scorcher, And believes in Rat Tan. I am to Wear My new Cloths Next Sunday. Excuse This long letter. Your Friend till death,

“KINCH SANDERS DE YOUNGE.

[Illustration: skull and cross bones]

“P.S. This it the best Skull and Cross-bones That I can make. Come home soon, Yours &c.,

“K. S. DE YOUNGE, ESQ.”

Charlie could not but smile through his tears, as he read this curious epistle, which was not more remarkable for its graceful composition than its wonderful chirography. Some of the lines were written in blue ink, some in red, and others in that pale muddy black which is the peculiar colour of ink after passing through the various experiments of school-boys, who generally entertain the belief that all foreign substances, from molasses-candy to bread-crumbs, necessarily improve the colour and quality of that important liquid.

“Why every other word almost is commenced with a capital; and I declare he’s even made some in German text,” cried Charlie, running his finger mirthfully along the lines, until he came to “Your father is very bad.” Here the tears came welling up again–the shower had returned almost before the sun had departed; and, hiding his face in his hands, he leant sobbing on the table.

“Cheer up, Charlie!–cheer up, my little man! all may go well yet.”

“Mrs. Bird,” he sobbed, “you’ve been very kind to me; yet I want to go home. I must see mother and father. You see what Esther writes,–they want me to come home; do let me go.”

“Of course you shall go, if you wish. Yet I should like you to remain with me, if you will.”

“No, no, Mrs. Bird, I mustn’t stay; it wouldn’t be right for me to remain here, idle and enjoying myself, and they so poor and unhappy at home. I couldn’t stay,” said he, rising from the table,–“I must go.”

“Well, my dear, you can’t go now. Sit down and finish your breakfast, or you will have a head-ache.”

“I’m not hungry–I can’t eat,” he replied; “my appetite has all gone.” And stealing away from the room, he went up into his chamber, threw himself on the bed, and wept bitterly.

Mrs. Bird was greatly distressed at the idea of losing her little favourite. He had been so much with her that she had become strongly attached to him, and therefore looked forward to his departure with unfeigned regret. But Charlie could not be persuaded to stay; and reluctantly Mrs. Bird made arrangements for his journey home. Even the servants looked a little sorry when they heard of his intended departure; and Reuben the coachman actually presented him with a jack-knife as a token of his regard.

Mrs. Bird accompanied him to the steamer, and placed him under the special care of the captain; so that he was most comfortably provided for until his arrival in New York, where he took the cars direct for home.

Not having written to inform them on what day he might be expected, he anticipated giving them a joyful surprise, and, with this end in view, hastened in the direction of Mr. Walters’s. As he passed along, his eye was attracted by a figure before him which he thought he recognized, and on closer inspection it proved to be his sister Caddy.

Full of boyish fun, he crept up behind her, and clasped his hands over her eyes, exclaiming, in an assumed voice, “Now, who am I?”

“Go away, you impudent, nasty thing!” cried Caddy, plunging violently. Charlie loosed his hold; she turned, and beheld her brother.

“Oh! Charlie, Charlie! is it you? Why, bless you, you naughty fellow, how you frightened me!” said she, throwing her arms round his neck, and kissing him again and again. “When did you come? Oh, how delighted mother and Ess will be!” “I only arrived about half an hour ago. How are mother and father and Esther?”

“Mother and Ess are well, and father better. But I’m so glad to see you,” she cried, with a fresh burst of tears and additional embraces.

“Why, Cad,” said he, endeavouring to suppress some watery sensations of his own, “I’m afraid you’re not a bit pleased at my return–you’re actually crying about it.”

“Oh, I’m so glad to see you that I can’t help it,” she replied, as she fell to crying and kissing him more furiously than before.

Charlie became much confused at these repeated demonstrations of joyful affection in the crowded street, and, gently disengaging her, remarked, “See, Caddy, everybody is looking at us; let us walk on.”

“I had almost forgot I was sent on an errand–however, it’s not of much consequence–I’ll go home again with you;” and taking his hand, they trudged on together.

“How did you say father was?” he asked again.

“Oh, he’s better bodily; that is, he has some appetite, sits up every day, and is gradually getting stronger; but he’s all wrong here,” said she, tapping her forehead. “Sometimes he don’t know any of us–and it makes us all feel so bad.” Here the tears came trickling down again, as she continued: “Oh, Charlie! what those white devils will have to answer for! When I think of how much injury they have done us, I _hate_ them! I know it’s wrong to hate anybody–but I can’t help it; and I believe God hates them as much as I do!”

Charlie looked gloomy; and, as he made no rejoinder, she continued, “We didn’t save a thing, not even a change of clothes; they broke and burnt up everything; and then the way they beat poor father was horrible–horrible! Just think–they chopped his fingers nearly all off, so that he has only the stumps left. Charlie, Charlie!” she cried, wringing her hands, “it’s heart-rending to see him–he can’t even feed himself, and he’ll never be able to work again!”

“Don’t grieve, Cad,” said Charlie, with an effort to suppress his own tears; “I’m almost a man now,” continued he, drawing himself up–“don’t be afraid, I’ll take care of you all!”

Thus conversing, they reached Mr. Walters’s. Caddy wanted Charlie to stop and look at the damage effected by the mob upon the outside of the house, but he was anxious to go in, and ran up the steps and gave the bell a very sharp pull. The servant who opened the door was about to make some exclamation of surprise, and was only restrained by a warning look from Charlie. Hurrying past them, Caddy led the way to the room where her mother and Esther were sitting. With a cry of joy Mrs. Ellis caught him in her arms, and, before he was aware of their presence, he found himself half smothered by her and Esther.

They had never been separated before his trip to Warmouth; and their reunion, under such circumstances, was particularly affecting. None of them could speak for a few moments, and Charlie clung round his mother’s neck as though he would never loose his hold. “Mother, mother!” was all he could utter; yet in that word was comprised a world of joy and affection.

Esther soon came in for her share of caresses; then Charlie inquired, “Where’s father?”

“In here,” said Mrs. Ellis, leading the way to an adjoining room. “I don’t think he will know you–perhaps he may.”

In one corner of the apartment, propped up in a large easy chair by a number of pillows, sat poor Mr. Ellis, gazing vacantly about the room and muttering to himself. His hair had grown quite white, and his form was emaciated in the extreme; there was a broad scar across his forehead, and his dull, lustreless eyes were deeply sunken in his head. He took no notice of them as they approached, but continued muttering and looking at his hands.

Charlie was almost petrified at the change wrought in his father. A few months before he had left him in the prime of healthful manhood; now he was bent and spectrelike, and old in appearance as if the frosts of eighty winters had suddenly fallen on him. Mrs. Ellis laid her hand gently upon his shoulder, and said, “Husband, here’s Charlie.” He made no reply, but continued muttering and examining his mutilated hands. “It’s Charlie,” she repeated.

“Oh, ay! nice little boy!” he replied, vacantly; “whose son is he?”

Mrs. Ellis’s voice quivered as she reiterated, “It’s Charlie–our Charlie!–don’t you know him?”

“Oh, yes! nice little boy–nice little boy. Oh!” he continued, in a suppressed and hurried tone, as a look of alarm crossed his face; “run home quick, little boy! and tell your mother they’re coming, thousands of them; they’ve guns, and swords, and clubs. Hush! There they come–there they come!” And he buried his face in the shawl, and trembled in an agony of fright.

“Oh, mother, this is dreadful!” exclaimed Charlie. “Don’t he know any of you?”

“Yes; sometimes his mind comes back–very seldom, though–only for a very little while. Come away: talking to him sometimes makes him worse.” And slowly and sorrowfully the two left the apartment.

That evening, after Mr. Ellis had been safely bestowed in bed, the family gathered round the fire in the room of Mrs. Ellis, where Charlie entertained them with a description of Warmouth and of the manner in which he had passed the time whilst there. He was enthusiastic respecting Mrs. Bird and her kindness. “Mother, she is such a _dear_ old lady: if I’d been as white as snow, and her own son, she couldn’t have been kinder to me. She didn’t want me to come away, and cried ever so much. Let me show you what she gave me!” Charlie thrust his hand into his pocket, and drew out a small wallet, from which he counted out four ten-dollar bills, two fives, and a two dollar and a half gold piece, “Ain’t I rich!” said he, as, with the air of a millionaire, he tossed the money upon a table. “Now,” he continued, “do you know what I’m about to do?” Not receiving any answer from his wondering sisters or mother, he added, “Why, just this!–here, mother, this is yours,” said he, placing the four ten-dollar bills before her; “and here are five apiece for Esther and Cad; the balance is for your humble servant. Now, then,” he concluded, “what do you think of that?”

Mrs. Ellis looked fondly at him, and, stroking his head, told him that he was a good son; and Esther and Caddy declared him to be the best brother in town.

“Now, girls,” said he, with the air of a patriarch, “what do you intend to do with your money?”

“Mine will go towards buying me a dress, and Esther will save hers for a particular purpose,” said Caddy. “I’ll tell you something about her and Mr. Walters,” continued she, with a mischievous look at her sister.

“Oh, Caddy–don’t! Ain’t you ashamed to plague me so?” asked Esther, blushing to the roots of her hair. “Mother, pray stop her,” cried she, pleadingly.

“Hush, Caddy!” interposed her mother, authoritatively; “you shall do no such thing.”

“Well,” resumed Caddy, “mother says I mustn’t tell; but I can say this much—-“

Esther here put her hand over her sister’s mouth and effectually prevented any communication she was disposed to make.

“Never mind her, Ess!” cried Charlie; “you’ll tell me all in good time, especially if it’s anything worth knowing.”

Esther made no reply, but, releasing her sister, hurried out of the room, and went upstairs to Charlie’s chamber, where he found her on retiring for the night.

“I’m glad you’re here, Ess,” said he, “you’ll indulge me. Here is the key–open my trunk and get me out a nightcap; I’m too tired, or too lazy, to get it for myself.” Esther stooped down, opened the trunk, and commenced searching for the article of head-gear in question. “Come, Ess,” said Charles, coaxingly, “tell me what this is about you and Mr. Walters.”

She made no reply at first, but fumbled about in the bottom of the trunk, professedly in search of the nightcap which she at that moment held in her hand. “Can’t you tell me?” he again asked.

“Oh, there’s nothing to tell, Charlie!” she answered.

“There must be something, Ess, or you wouldn’t have blushed up so when Cad was about to speak of it. Do,” said he, approaching her, and putting his arm round her neck–“do tell me all about it–I am sure there is some secret!”

“Oh, no, Charlie–there is no secret; it’s only this—-” Here she stopped, and, blushing, turned her head away.

“Ess, this is nonsense,” said Charlie, impatiently: “if it’s anything worth knowing, why can’t you tell a fellow? Come,” said he, kissing her, “tell me, now, like a dear old Ess as you are.”

“Well, Charlie,” said she, jerking the words out with an effort, “Mr.–Mr. Walters has asked me to marry him!”

“Phew–gemini! that is news!” exclaimed Charlie. “And are you going to accept him Ess?”

“I don’t know,” she answered.

“Don’t know!” repeated Charlie, in a tone of surprise. “Why, Ess, I’m astonished at you–such a capital fellow as he is! Half the girls of our acquaintance would give an eye for the chance.”

“But he is so rich!” responded Esther.

“Well, now, that’s a great objection, ain’t it! I should say, all the better on that account,” rejoined Charlie.

“The money is the great stumbling-block,” continued she; “everybody would say I married him for that.”

“Then _everybody_ would lie, _as_ everybody very often does! If I was you, Ess, and loved him, I shouldn’t let his fortune stand in the way. I wish,” continued he, pulling up his shirt-collar, “that some amiable young girl with a fortune of a hundred thousand dollars, would make me an offer–I’d like to catch myself refusing her!”

The idea of a youth of his tender years marrying any one, seemed so ludicrous to Esther, that she burst into a hearty fit of laughter, to the great chagrin of our hero, who seemed decidedly of the opinion that his sister had not a proper appreciation of his years and inches.

“Don’t laugh, Ess; but tell me–do you really intend to refuse him?”

“I can’t decide yet, Charlie,” answered she seriously; “if we were situated as we were before–were not such absolute paupers–I wouldn’t hesitate to accept him; but to bring a family of comparative beggars upon him–I can’t make up my mind to do that.”

Charlie looked grave as Esther made this last objection; boy as he was, he felt its weight and justice. “Well, Ess,” rejoined he, “I don’t know what to say about it–of course I can’t advise. What does mother say?”

“She leaves it entirely to me,” she answered. “She says I must act just as I feel is right.”

“I certainly wouldn’t have him at all, Ess, if I didn’t love him; and if I did, I shouldn’t let the money stand in the way–so, good night!”

Charlie slept very late the next morning, and was scarcely dressed when Esther knocked at his door, with the cheerful tidings that her father had a lucid interval and was waiting to see him.

Dressing himself hastily, he followed her into their father’s room. When he entered, the feeble sufferer stretched out his mutilated arms towards him and clasped him round the neck, “They tell me,” said he, “that you came yesterday, and that I didn’t recognize you. I thought, when I awoke this morning, that I had a dim recollection of having seen some dear face; but my head aches so, that I often forget–yes, often forget. My boy,” he continued, “you are all your mother and sisters have to depend upon now; I’m–I’m—-” here his voice faltered, as he elevated his stumps of hands–“I’m helpless; but you must take care of them. I’m an old man now,” said he despondingly.

“I will, father; I’ll try _so_ hard” replied Charlie.

“It was cruel in them, wasn’t it, son,” he resumed. “See, they’ve made me helpless for ever!” Charlie restrained the tears that were forcing themselves up, and rejoined, “Never fear, father! I’ll do my best; I trust I shall soon be able to take care of you.”

His father did not understand him–his mind was gone again, and he was staring vacantly about him. Charlie endeavoured to recall his attention, but failed, for he began muttering about the mob and his hands; they were compelled to quit the room, and leave him to himself, as he always became quiet sooner by being left alone.

CHAPTER XXVII.

Sudbury.

We must now admit our readers to a consultation that is progressing between Mr. Balch and Mr. Walters, respecting the future of the two Garie children. They no doubt entered upon the conference with the warmest and most earnest desire of promoting the children’s happiness; but, unfortunately, their decision failed to produce the wished-for result.

“I scarcely thought you would have succeeded so well with him,” said Walters, “he is such an inveterate scoundrel; depend upon it nothing but the fear of the exposure resulting from a legal investigation would ever have induced that scamp to let twelve thousand dollars escape from his clutches. I am glad you have secured that much; when we add it to the eight thousand already in my possession it will place them in very comfortable circumstances, even if they never get any more.”

“I think we have done very well,” rejoined Mr. Balch; “we were as much in his power as he was in ours–not in the same way, however; a legal investigation, no matter how damaging it might have been to his reputation, would not have placed us in possession of the property, or invalidated his claim as heir. I think, on the whole, we may as well be satisfied, and trust in Providence for the future. So now, then, we will resume our discussion of that matter we had under consideration the other day. I cannot but think that my plan is best adapted to secure the boy’s happiness.”

“I’m sorry I cannot agree with you, Mr. Balch. I have tried to view your plan in the most favourable light, yet I cannot rid myself of a presentiment that it will result in the ultimate discovery of his peculiar position, and that most probably at some time when his happiness is dependent upon its concealment. An undetected forger, who is in constant fear of being apprehended, is happy in comparison with that coloured man who attempts, in this country, to hold a place in the society of whites by concealing his origin. He must live in constant fear of exposure; this dread will embitter every enjoyment, and make him the most miserable of men.”

“You must admit,” rejoined Mr. Balch, “that I have their welfare at heart. I have thought the matter over and over, and cannot, for the life of me, feel the weight of your objections. The children are peculiarly situated; everything seems to favour my views. Their mother (the only relative they had whose African origin was distinguishable) is dead, and both of them are so exceedingly fair that it would never enter the brain of any one that they were connected with coloured people by ties of blood. Clarence is old enough to know the importance of concealing the fact, and Emily might be kept with us until her prudence also might be relied upon. You must acknowledge that as white persons they will be better off.”

“I admit,” answered Mr. Walters, “that in our land of liberty it is of incalculable advantage to be white; that is beyond dispute, and no one is more painfully aware of it than I. Often I have heard men of colour say they would not be white if they could–had no desire to change their complexions; I’ve written some down fools; others, liars. Why,” continued he, with a sneering expression of countenance, “it is everything to be white; one feels that at every turn in our boasted free country, where all men are upon an equality. When I look around me, and see what I have made myself in spite of circumstances, and think what I might have been with the same heart and brain beneath a fairer skin, I am almost tempted to curse the destiny that made me what I am. Time after time, when scraping, toiling, saving, I have asked myself. To what purpose is it all?–perhaps that in the future white men may point at and call me, sneeringly, ‘a nigger millionaire,’ or condescend to borrow money of me. Ah! often, when some negro-hating white man has been forced to ask a loan at my hands, I’ve thought of Shylock and his pound of flesh, and ceased to wonder at him. There’s no doubt, my dear sir, but what I fully appreciate the advantage of being white. Yet, with all I have endured, and yet endure from day to day, I esteem myself happy in comparison with that man, who, mingling in the society of whites, is at the same time aware that he has African blood in his veins, and is liable at any moment to be ignominiously hurled from his position by the discovery of his origin. He is never safe. I have known instances where parties have gone on for years and years undetected; but some untoward circumstance brings them out at last, and down they fall for ever.”

“Walters, my dear fellow, you will persist in looking upon his being discovered as a thing of course: I see no reason for the anticipation of any such result. I don’t see how he is to be detected–it may never occur. And do you feel justified in consigning them to a position which you know by painful experience to be one of the most disagreeable that can be endured. Ought we not to aid their escape from it if we can?”

Mr. Walters stood reflectively for some moments, and then exclaimed, “I’ll make no farther objection; I would not have the boy say to me hereafter, ‘But for your persisting in identifying me with a degraded people, I might have been better and happier than I am.’ However, I cannot but feel that concealments of this kind are productive of more misery than comfort.”

“We will agree to differ about that, Walters; and now, having your consent, I shall not hesitate to proceed in the matter, with full reliance that the future will amply justify my choice.”

“Well, well! as I said before, I will offer no further objection. Now let me hear the details of your plan.”

“I have written,” answered Mr. Balch, “to Mr. Eustis, a friend of mine living at Sudbury, where there is a large preparatory school for boys. At his house I purpose placing Clarence. Mr. Eustis is a most discreet man, and a person of liberal sentiments. I feel that I can confide everything to him without the least fear of his ever divulging a breath of it. He is a gentleman in the fullest sense of the term, and at his house the boy will have the advantage of good society, and will associate with the best people of the place.”

“Has he a family?” asked Mr. Walters.

“He is a widower,” answered Mr. Balch; “a maiden sister of his wife’s presides over his establishment; she will be kind to Clarence, I am confident; she has a motherly soft heart, and is remarkably fond of children. I have not the least doubt but that he will be very happy and comfortable there. I think it very fortunate, Walters,” he continued, “that he has so few coloured acquaintances–no boyish intimacies to break up; and it will be as well to send him away before he has an opportunity of forming them. Besides, being here, where everything will be so constantly reviving the remembrance of his recent loss, he may grow melancholy and stupid. I have several times noticed his reserve, so unusual in a child. His dreadful loss and the horrors that attended it have made, a deep impression–stupified him, to a certain extent, I think. Well, well! we will get him off, and once away at school, and surrounded by lively boys, this dulness will soon wear off.”

The gentlemen having fully determined upon his being sent, it was proposed to bring him in immediately and talk to him relative to it. He was accordingly sent for, and came into the room, placing himself beside the chair of Mr. Walters.

Clarence had altered very much since the death of his parents. His face had grown thin and pale, and he was much taller than when he came to Philadelphia: a shade of melancholy had overspread his face; there was now in his eyes that expression of intense sadness that characterized his mother’s. “You sent for me?” he remarked, inquiringly, to Mr. Walters.

“Yes, my boy,” he rejoined, “we sent for you to have a little talk about school. Would you like to go to school again?”

“Oh, yes!” answered Clarence, his face lighting up with pleasure; “I should like it of all things; it would be much better than staying at home all day, doing nothing; the days are so long,” concluded he, with a sigh.

“Ah! we will soon remedy that,” rejoined Mr. Balch, “when you go to Sudbury.”

“Sudbury!” repeated Clarence, with surprise; “where is that? I thought you meant, to go to school here.”

“Oh, no, my dear,” said Mr. Balch, “I don’t know of any good school here, such as you would like; we wish to send you to a place where you will enjoy yourself finely,–where you will have a number of boys for companions in your studies and pleasures.”

“And is Em going with me?” he asked.

“Oh, no, that is not possible; it is a school for boys exclusively; you can’t take your sister there,” rejoined Mr. Walters.

“Then I don’t want to go,” said Clarence, decidedly; “I don’t want to go where I can’t take Em with me.”

Mr. Balch exchanged glances with Mr. Walters, and looked quite perplexed at this new opposition to his scheme. Nothing daunted, however, by this difficulty, he, by dint of much talking and persuasion, brought Clarence to look upon the plan with favour, and to consent reluctantly to go without his sister.

But the most delicate part of the whole business was yet to come–they must impress upon the child the necessity of concealing the fact that he was of African origin. Neither seemed to know how to approach the subject. Clarence, however, involuntarily made an opening for them by inquiring if Emily was to go to Miss Jordan’s school again.

“No, my dear,” answered Mr. Balch, “Miss Jordan won’t permit her to attend school there.”

“Why?” asked Clarence.

“Because she is a coloured child,” rejoined Mr. Balch. “Now, Clarence,” he continued, “you are old enough, I presume, to know the difference that exists between the privileges and advantages enjoyed by the whites, and those that are at the command of the coloured people. White boys can go to better schools, and they can enter college and become professional men, lawyers, doctors, &c, or they may be merchants–in fact, they can be anything they please. Coloured people can enjoy none of these advantages; they are shut out from them entirely. Now which of the two would you rather be–coloured or white?”

“I should much rather be white, of course,” answered Clarence; “but I am coloured, and can’t help myself,” said he, innocently.

“But, my child, we are going to send you where it is not known that you are coloured; and you must _never, never_ tell it, because if it became known, you would be expelled from the school, as you were from Miss Jordan’s.”

“I didn’t know we were expelled,” rejoined Clarence. “I know she sent us home, but I could not understand what it was for. I’m afraid they will send me from the other school. Won’t they know I am coloured?”

“No, my child, I don’t think they will discover it unless you should be foolish enough to tell it yourself, in which case both Mr. Walters and myself would be very much grieved.”

“But suppose some one should ask me,” suggested Clarence.

“No one will ever ask you such a question,” said Mr. Balch, impatiently; “all you have to do is to be silent yourself on the subject. Should any of your schoolmates ever make inquiries respecting your parents, all you have to answer is, they were from Georgia, and you are an orphan.”

Clarence’s eyes began to moisten as Mr. Balch spoke of his parents, and after a few moments he asked, with some hesitation, “Am I never to speak of mother? I love to talk of mother.”

“Yes, my dear, of course you can talk of your mother,” answered Mr. Balch, with great embarrassment; “only, you know, my child, you need not enter into particulars as regards her appearance; that is, you–ah!–need not say she was a coloured woman. You _must not_ say that; you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Clarence.

“Very well, then; bear that in mind. You must know, Clarence,” continued he, “that this concealment is necessary for your welfare, or we would not require it; and you must let me impress it upon you, that it is requisite that you attend strictly to our directions.”

Mr. Walters remained silent during most of this conversation. He felt a repugnance to force upon the child a concealment the beneficial results of which were the reverse of obvious, so he merely gave Clarence some useful advice respecting his general conduct, and then permitted him to leave the room.

The morning fixed upon for their departure for Sudbury turned out to be cold and cheerless; and Clarence felt very gloomy as he sat beside his sister at their early breakfast, of which he was not able to eat a morsel. “Do eat something, Clary,” said she, coaxingly; “only look what nice buckwheat cakes these are; cook got up ever so early on purpose to bake them for you.”

“No, sis,” he replied, “I can’t eat. I feel so miserable, everything chokes me.”

“Well, eat a biscuit, then,” she continued, as she buttered it and laid it on his plate; “do eat it, now.”

More to please her than from a desire to eat, he forced down a few mouthfuls of it, and drank a little tea; then, laying his arm round her neck, he said, “Em, you must try hard to learn to write soon, so that I may hear from you at least once a week.”

“Oh! I shall soon know how, I’m in g’s and h’s now. Aunt Esther–she says I may call her Aunt Esther–teaches me every day. Ain’t I getting on nicely?”

“Oh, yes, you learn very fast,” said Esther, encouragingly, as she completed the pile of sandwiches she was preparing for the young traveller; then, turning to look at the timepiece on the mantel, she exclaimed, “Quarter to seven–how time flies! Mr. Balch will soon be here. You must be all ready, Clarence, so as not to keep him waiting a moment.”

Clarence arose from his scarcely tasted meal, began slowly to put on his overcoat, and make himself ready for the journey. Em tied on the warm woollen neck-comforter, kissing him on each cheek as she did so, and whilst they were thus engaged, Mr. Balch drove up to the door.

Charlie, who had come down to see him off, tried (with his mouth full of buckwheat cake) to say something consolatory, and gave it as his experience, “that a fellow soon got over that sort of thing; that separations must occur sometimes,” &c.–and, on the whole, endeavoured to talk in a very manly and philosophical strain; but his precepts and practice proved to be at utter variance, for when the moment of separation really came and he saw the tearful embrace of Em and her brother, he caught the infection of grief, and cried as heartily as the best of them. There was but little time, however, to spare for leave-takings, and the young traveller and his guardian were soon whirling over the road towards New York.

By a singular chance, Clarence found himself in the same car in which he had formerly rode when they were on their way to Philadelphia: he recognized it by some peculiar paintings on the panel of the door, and the ornamental border of the ceiling. This brought back a tide of memories, and he began contrasting that journey with the present. Opposite was the seat on which his parents had sat, in the bloom of health, and elate with; joyous anticipations; he remembered–oh! so well–his father’s pleasant smile, his mother’s soft and gentle voice. Both now were gone. Death had