this critical juncture old Cudjoe, the black man-of-all-work, put his head in at the door, and wished “Missis would come into the kitchen;” and our senator, tolerably relieved, looked after his little wife with a whimsical mixture of amusement and vexation, and, seating himself in the arm-chair, began to read the papers.
After a moment, his wife’s voice was heard at the door, in a quick, earnest tone—“John! John! I do wish you’d come here a moment.”
He laid down his paper and went into the kitchen, and started, quite amazed at the sight that presented itself: A young and slender woman, with garments torn and frozen, with one shoe gone, and the stocking torn away from the cut and bleeding foot, was laid back in a deadly swoon upon two chairs. There was the impress of the despised race on her face, yet none could help feeling its mournful and pathetic beauty, while its stony sharpness, its cold, fixed, deadly aspect, struck a solemn chill over him. He drew his breath short, and stood in silence. His wife, and their only coloured domestic, old Aunt Dinah, were busily engaged in restorative measures; while old Cudjoe had got a boy on his knee, and was busy pulling off his shoes and stockings, and chafing his little cold feet.
“Sure, now, if she an’t a sight to behold!” said old Dinah compassionately; “’pears like ’twas the heat that made her faint. She was tol’able peart when she cum in, and asked if she couldn’t warm herself here a spell; and I was just a askin’ her where she cum from, and she fainted right down. Never done much hard work, guess, by the looks of her hands.”
“Poor creature!” said Mrs. Bird compassionately, as the woman slowly unclosed her large, dark eyes, and looked vacantly at her. Suddenly an expression of agony crossed her face, and she sprang up, saying, “Oh, my Harry! Have they got him?”
The boy at this jumped from Cudjoe’s knee, and, running to her side, put up his arms. “Oh, he’s here! he’s here!” she exclaimed.
“Oh, ma’am!” said she wildly, to Mrs. Bird, “do protect us! don’t let them get him!”
“Nobody shall hurt you here, poor woman,” said Mrs. Bird encouragingly. “You are safe; don’t be afraid.”
“God bless you!” said the woman, covering her face and sobbing; while the little boy, seeing her crying, tried to get into her lap.
With many gentle and womanly offices which none knew better how to render than Mrs. Bird, the poor woman was, in time, rendered more calm. A temporary bed was provided for her on the settle, near the fire; and, after a short time, she fell into a heavy slumber, with the child, who seemed no less weary, soundly sleeping on her arm; for the mother resisted with nervous anxiety the kindest attempts to take him from her; and even in sleep her arms encircled him with an unrelaxing clasp, as if she could not even then be beguiled of her vigilant hold.
Mr. and Mrs. Bird had gone back to the parlour, where, strange as it may appear, no reference was made, on either side, to the preceding conversation; but Mrs. Bird busied herself with her knitting work, and Mr. Bird pretended to be reading the paper.
“I wonder who and what she is!” said Mr. Bird at last, as he laid it down.
“When she wakes up and feels a little rested we will see,” said Mrs. Bird.
“I say, wife!” said Mr. Bird, after musing in silence over his paper.
“Well, dear?”
“She couldn’t wear one of your gowns, could she, by any letting down, or such matter? She seems to be rather larger than you are.”
A quite perceptible smile glimmered on Mrs. Bird’s face as she answered, “We’ll see.”
Another pause, and Mr. Bird again broke out.
“I say, wife!”
“Well! what now?”
“Why, there’s that old bombazine cloak that you keep on purpose to put over me when I take my afternoon’s nap; you might as well give her that—she needs clothes.”
At that instant, Dinah looked in to say that the woman was awake, and wanted to see missis.
Mr. and Mrs. Bird went into the kitchen, followed by the two eldest boys, the smaller fry having by this time been safely disposed of in bed.
The woman was now sitting up on the settle by the fire. She was looking steadily into the blaze with a calm, heartbroken expression, very different from her former agitated wildness.
“Did you want me?” said Mrs. Bird, in gentle tones. “I hope you feel better now, poor woman!”
A long-drawn, shivering sigh was the only answer; but she lifted her dark eyes and fixed them on her with such a forlorn and imploring expression that the tears came into the little woman’s eyes.
“You needn’t be afraid of anything; we are friends here, poor woman! Tell me where you came from, and what you want,” said she.
“I came from Kentucky,” said the woman.
“When?” said Mr. Bird, taking up the interrogatory.
“To-night.”
“How did you come?”
“I crossed on the ice.”
“Crossed on the ice!” said every one present.
“Yes,” said the woman slowly, “I did. God helping me, I crossed on the ice; for they were behind me—right behind—and there was no other way!”
“Law, missis,” said Cudjoe, “the ice is all in broken-up blocks, a swinging and a tettering up and down in the water.”
“I know it was—I know it!” said she wildly; “but I did it! I wouldn’t have thought I could—I didn’t think I should get over, but I didn’t care! I could but die, if I didn’t. The Lord helped me; nobody knows how much the Lord can help ’em till they try,” said the woman, with a flashing eye.
“Were you a slave?” asked Mr. Bird.
“Yes, sir; I belonged to a man in Kentucky.”
“Was he unkind to you?”
“No, sir; he was a good master.”
“And was your mistress unkind to you?”
“No, sir—no! my mistress was always good to me.”
“What could induce you to leave a good home, then, and run away, and go through such dangers?”
The woman looked up at Mrs. Bird with a keen, scrutinising glance, and it did not escape her that she was dressed in deep mourning.
“Ma’am,” she said suddenly, “have you ever lost a child?”
The question was unexpected, and it was a thrust on a new wound; for it was only a month since a darling child of the family had been laid in the grave.
Mr. Bird turned around and walked to the window, and Mrs. Bird burst into tears, but, recovering her voice, she said:
“Why
