THE Brown family, who resided in the house we have described at the ford, consisted at the time of the commencement of our story, of six persons: the father and mother, three children, and a young man about 18 years of age, named Samuel Weaver, an apprentice to the wagon-making business. The father, William Brown, or as he was familiarly known among his neighbors, “Billy Brown,” was about 42 years of age, and the two elder children were his by a former marriage. Their mother, after a few brief years of married life, had passed away, and been quietly and sorrowfully laid in the grave-yard at the Friends' Meeting-house, a few miles distant. The elder child, a girl, was some 18 years of age and bore a strong resemblance to her father; her name was Martha. Her brother, named Henry, was two year her junior, and, the neighbors said, favored his deceased mother. Margaret Brown, the present wife of William, was some years his junior, and at the time of which we speak was probably about 35 years of age. Her only child, a boy of six or seven years, named Frank, made up the sixth and last member of the family.

William, or “Billy Brown,” as we shall sometimes hereafter call him, was one of those remarkable men, physically, who seem to belong to a past age. He was about six feet high, lacking probably half an inch, and, without an ounce of superfluous flesh, weighing 190 pounds. His shoulders were broad, and rounded very slightly, his chest deep and ample, and his limbs muscular and well formed. He seemed born to accomplish whatever was (physically) within the bounds of possibility.

His ancestors had come over from England with William Penn, at the first Quaker settlement at Philadelphia, and every branch of the family's descendants had retained their connection with that sect.

But to look at “Billy,” without taking note of his apparel, one would scarcely put him down as belonging to that staid and quiet society. His small gray eyes, deep-set in his head, had about them a fun-loving twinkle which told that merriment, and even hilarity, were in no way repulsive to his feelings; while his curly black hair, which fell in glossy ringlets over the straight, stiff collar of his Quaker coat, was a reminder that nature had not designed him to live in a world whose only color was drab.

Looking at his head with its high though not broad forehead, its well developed coronal region, its strongly marked perceptive faculties and ample breadth behind the ears, a phrenologist would say that firmness, conscientiousness and courage were his leading characteristics; and that though having a fair and practical intellect, which culture would have developed into a commanding one, he lacked the command of words necessary to convey his ideas with ease or fluency; while those who had the best opportunity to know him, and were capable of judging, would have confirmed this opinion.

A year and more after the death of his first wife, Billy Brown had, in pursuit of his calling, went some six or seven miles up the Octorara to look at some rare and valuable timber on the premises of his friend Joe Simmons, who had sent him word that he had such an article for sale.

Joe was a bachelor, who owned a large tract of land, given him by his father, a small portion of which was farm land, and the remainder covered with heavy timber. When Billy arrived, after looking at the timber he was invited to the house to take dinner, as was the hospitable custom in those days when it was at or near that hour.

Now it was Joe's good fortune to have a housekeeper, whom his father had raised and whom he had known from childhood, amply capable of performing all the duties pertaining to that position, besides being a woman that was in every respect calculated to make home pleasant and comfortable. So at least thought Joe, and events proved that his guest strongly inclined to the same opinion, for he soon returned to visit again the hospitable mansion of his friend, and in a little more than a year, at the quiet and unpretending meeting-house in the neighborhood, where Friends met for divine worship, William Brown and Margaret Lincoln were made man and wife.

Everybody said it was a good match. The Friends, in their quiet way, congratulated each other that both these worthy members had married in the society, and according to their prescribed forms. Joe Simmons was perhaps the only dissatisfied person in the neighborhood, and he only because he had lost his housekeeper.

Margaret Lincoln was the daughter of Scotch Presbyterians, who had emigrated to America just after the close of the Revolutionary war, and settled near Elkton, Cecil county, Maryland. They both died about the year 1800, leaving a family of small children without any means of support.

It was Margaret's good fortune to be “bound out,” as the custom then was, to a member of the Society of Friends, residing in Chester county, Pennsylvania, near the Maryland line, named Abraham Simmons. She was kindly used in this family and ever retained for them a grateful remembrance. Naturally of a devotional nature, and attending the meetings of no religious society but the Friends, she soon became attached to their doctrine and principles, and at the age of eighteen made application for admission to membership; this, after careful examination by a committee appointed by the society, was promptly granted. She remained through life one of its most active and devoted members.

When Margaret attained the age of twenty-one, Abraham Simmons made a present to his son Joe of a tract of land on the Octorara, and asked Margaret if she would keep house for him. She consented, and remained there until she met with William Brown, as before mentioned.

At the time we introduced our readers to the Brown family, she was about 35 years of age, and had been married about eight years. Looking at her then, one could hardly imagine a more perfect picture of matured, womanly beauty. Her form was somewhat stout but not unpleasant to look upon. Her heavy tresses of dark-brown hair were drawn back from a forehead smooth as polished marble and almost as white. Her soft hazel eyes looked out upon the world as though it were something to love and make happy; and her nose, slightly Roman, detracted nothing from her beauty, while marking her character as one of ample force.

Her cheeks rivaled the fairest rose in their pure and delicate color, and her mouth and chin, while bearing marks of firmness and decision, did not in any way detract from the uniformity and proportion of her face. The expression of her countenance was genial and benevolent, and one could not look upon her without being most favorably impressed with her appearance.

Such were the Browns, of Brown's ford, in or about the year 1830. Let us now learn something of their neighbors.

A large majority of persons residing in the immediate neighborhood were members of the Society of Friends, and those who inclined that way. They met for public worship at Eastland Meeting-house, some two miles from the ford, on the northern or Lancaster county side. The regular meetings of the society were held on the first and fourth days of the week, those on First day, or Sunday, being generally well attended. When it happened, as was not unfrequently the case, that a “traveling Friend” came round, the gatherings were quite large, the little meeting-house not always being large enough to hold them.

Among the prominent and influential members of the society, who gathered twice a week, in sunshine and storm, in summer's heat and winter's cold, to worship God in their quiet and unpretending way, was Samuel Carter, or “Grandfather Carter” as he was generally called. He resided at Carter's mill, on the Octorara, a short distance below Brown's. as we have already described. He was a widower, with a large family of well-grown up and married children, and was about 75 years of age. He was noted the whole neighborhood over for his great strength of character, his strong sense of justice, indomitable pluck and practical good sense.

Whenever any unusually difficult undertaking was to be accomplished, Grandfather Carter, above all others, was the man to be consulted. His strong common sense and originality often suggested a simple and practical solution of important questions that had long been a puzzle to his less discerning neighbors.

Up the main road leading south from the ford at Brown's, and not more than a mile away, on the very verge of the “Barrens,” lived Peggy Keys and her husband Tommy. Peggy was ones of those strong-minded ladies who believed in woman's rights, and what was better, maintained them. Instead of vainly pleading for her rights, as do her less sagacious sisters of modern times, she had started business at the head of the firm and with indomitable pluck maintained her position there. Tommy was a man of some character and by no means a cypher; but he was not captain in that company. He had taken the position of first lieutenant at the beginning, and was in no danger of promotion except from the death of his superior officer.

They owned a reasonably comfortable house and a few acres of land, which they farmed very nicely, Peggy assisting in the out-door work.

She could hoe corn and potatoes, dress flax, rake hay and wheat, and husk corn, as well as men generally. What she could not do herself, she would oversee others in doing; and in that she manifested much ability. Nor was she content to work only at home. When not busy there she would hunt for a job among neighboring farmers, leaving to her two daughters the business of taking care of things at home.

As a corn-husker Peggy was peerless. In the fall of the year she would look out for all the husking that could be secured, and as soon as the grain was dry enough, at it she and Tommy would go. At the first dawn of morning, no matter how cold, she could be seen, with a night-cap or two, and a close-fitting bonnet in addition on her head, to keep out the cold, a heavy tow apron or bib on, and a long, smooth husking peg, made of the best and hardest of hickory, fastened to her hand by a leather strap or eel-skin.

From early dawn to dewy eve these two would toil, stopping only when the welcome dinner-horn called them to their mid-day meal. That meal over Peggy would light her pipe, Tommy would bite off a mouthful of his heavy plug tobacco, and away they would go to their labor, which darkness alone brought to a close. Nor would that always end their toil. Sometimes when there was moonlight, Peggy would direct Tommy to accompany her to the field after supper, and the two would toil till late bed-time at their task.

Nor was this all. No two men in the neighborhood could do more or better work, of this kind, in the same time, than Peggy Keys and her husband.

The bargains were always made by her, and the settlements also. She was captain of that company and maintained her rank in its entirety.

In many respects she was an estimable woman, and under other circumstances might have been extensively useful. She had an active mind but no culture, and as such people mostly are, was an adept in hunting up neighborhood news. Without meaning to do any harm in this way, she often, through want of thought, was the means of making mischief.

Her family had been Quakers, but when she married Tommy, who was not a member, she was disowned. Nevertheless she always attended meeting when a “strange Friend” came along, of which notice was mostly given her. On such occasions she would direct Tommy to yoke the oxen to the cart, that being the only vehicle they were in possession of, and placing a rush-bottom chair in it, he seated on the front part of the cart, they would drive to meeting.

Far over in the “Barrens,” some two miles away, at the foot of Goat-hill (so called from there often being goats seen browsing on its summit), lived a colored man who was known throughout the country round by the name of Neddy Johnson. Neddy had been a slave under the law of Pennsylvania, the property of some one in the southern part of Lancaster county. He had been married in early life, but his wife had died, leaving him a boy who went by the name of “Bill.” After a short experience in single blessedness, Neddy had married again, joining, his fortunes with a widow named “Till” or “Tilly,” who had two worthless boys, now grown to men, known as “Dave” and “Ben.” Neddy and his spouse had sought the “Barrens,” where they had erected a log cabin, fenced in a small lot, and proposed to make that place their home for the remainder of their days.

Neddy was in many respects a remarkable man. His physical development was grand. He was six feet in height, as straight as an arrow, and weighed about 180 pounds. His strength was most remarkable. Logs of wood that ordinary men could not lift, he could toss into a wagon or cart without an effort. It was said, on what seemed to be good authority, that he had cut, with a cradle, ten acres of well-grown wheat in a day. If any of the farmers wanted a big day's work done, they sent for Neddy. He seemed to work without an effort. Harvest time, though, was his glory. Always leading the mowers or reapers, he walked at their head like a king. No one in all that country was vain enough to believe he was able to “crowd” Neddy at such a time. At threshing with a flail, as was then the custom, he had no peer. It was said he could thresh twenty bushels of wheat in that way in a day; while ten was considered a good day's work for most men.

He had a great deal of native shrewdness and cunning, and withal was perfectly honest and upright.

Neddy possessed in a remarkable degree that peculiar faculty, which in human beings is supposed to represent what in animals is called instinct; but which in the former is possibly the result of very acute and well-trained perceptive powers. If anything was lost and a party started out to find it, Neddy being with them, he was sure to be the lucky one. Often he would go straight to the spot without an apparent effort or thought. If he went fishing the fish were sure to bite at his hook. His traps were the ones the game delighted to enter, and when he went out to shoot pigeons or squirrels, they were sure to present themselves at a convenient place in order to fall before his unerring aim.

Such was Neddy Johnson. Our readers shall know him better in the future.

IT has been already stated, in a preceding chapter, that a large majority of those who resided in the neighborhood of which we have heen speaking, were members of the Society of Friends. Indeed the settlement of Friends, of which this formed a part, embraced portions of Lancaster and Chester counties, in Pennsylvania, and Cecil and Harford counties, in Maryland.

Within reach of Brown's ford, by an easy half-day's journey, were not less than six Friends' meeting houses, three of them in Lancaster, two in Cecil and one in Harford county.

These were all embraced within the limits of one quarterly meeting—Nottingham—which was held alternately at Little Britain, Deer Creek and Brick Meeting-house.

The membership of this was quite large, and embraced many substantial and well-to-do citizens. As a natural consequence the principles, doctrines and customs of Friends had an extensive influence in this section, even among those who but seldom attended their meetings. The leading members were noted for their force of character and self-reliance, and these qualities contributed largely to impress their principles and modes of thought on those who possessed them in a less degree.

In those days the members of that society were much more exacting than at the present time. Music was forbidden in their families, and dancing was a sin scarcely to be atoned for. Any appearance of gayety in dress was frowned down as a sin that should receive no quarter. The elderly Friends wore their clothes of the plainest cut and color, and while to the younger members were allowed some latitude in this respect, there were certain bounds beyond which they were not permitted to go. The young men were permitted to wear coats of soft brown or dark color; but they did not give to the elderly members that supreme satisfaction they enjoyed at seeing a youthful Friend clad in drab. Any color, however, could be tolerated sooner than blue. That was not to be permitted or thought of. The devil never hated holy water with half the unction that a devoted follower of George Fox, at that day, hated a blue coat, especially if it was adorned with gilt or brass buttons—then it was fit only to be deposited in the very inner sanctuary of the Evil One.

A devoted and pious Friend, whose well-tilled acres bordered on the meeting-house at Eastland, had two bright-eyed daughters who had come to that age when unsatisfied yearnings take the place of girlhood's romp and gayety. Regular in their attendance at meeting, as was the imperative law in their domestic circle, they had attracted the attention and excited the admiration of a young man, himself a member of the society, but who had so far departed from established custom as to wear a blue coat. Once or twice he visited the Friend's house to spend an hour or two in company with the girls, and the father bore it with becoming resignation. Patience at last, however, ceased to be a virtue; he said: “Franklin, thee's not wanted here, thee's not wanted, thee may go.” The young man looked up in astonishment, but the Friend continued: “I know what thee comes for, but thy coats 's too blue—I tell thee thy coat's too blue.” Franklin departed.

More than a quarter of a century since, both the rigid Quaker and the blue-coated youth crossed over the dark river, and all that remained of them on earth was laid peacefully away in the little graveyard near by. In the house, not made with hands, to which they have gone, the angels wear neither blue nor drab, but vestments radiant with the love that embraces within its limits all created beings.

The Friends were noted for their thriftiness. A general supervision was exercised by the officers of the society over the business relations of the members, and at their monthly meetings one of the queries answered by the overseers was: “Are Friends careful to live within the bounds of their circumstances?” Any marked deviation from this received the immediate attention of the officials, and indeed, a member who regarded his standing in the society, was careful to guard against much outward show.

The general restraint upon any inclination toward extravagance, and the industrious and frugal habits of this people, had a tendency to cultivate and encourage a fondness for gain; and the members of the society were proverbial for their “love of money.” There were few really poor people among them, though such as were so, were carefully cared for by the meeting.

The quiet ways of the Friends, and their habits of self-restraint developed in them a kind of slyness that peculiarly fitted them, sharpened as it was by a love of money, to make a successful and profitable bargain. Indeed, it was sometimes said, that some prominent Friends were better “dealers” than strict honesty or the pure spirit of Christianity would warrant.

A drover in a neighboring village had bought some fat cattle from a farmer who was a member of the Presbyterian church. They were sold by live weight, and when weighed a few days afterward they had lost many pounds. The drover complained bitterly, and charged that they had been fed salt and allowed to drink a large quantity of water, in order to increase their weight. In the presence of several persons who were at the village store, in the evening, he said:

“Prispiterans will do that, they'll allus git their steers to drink all they kin. Feed 'em all the salt they'll eat. I know 'em, av bin fooled with 'em afore.”

“How is it with the Quakers, Abe,” said a sly fellow in the crowd, who perceived several members of that society present, “will they do so too?”

IT was early in the forenoon of a beautiful autumn day. The woods around Brown's ford were just beginning to clothe themselves in the gorgeous drapery of the season. Up the little brook, that entered the creek near the ford, the maples were tinged with crimson, which contrasted finely with the deep green of the laurel and the yet unfaded freshness of the oak. Along the banks of the creek the gum and birch showed traces of the frost king in their red and yellow leaves; while high up on the hill the hickories waved their fading verdure in the soft autumn air. The squirrels were busy gathering their winter stores, and as they leaped from branch to branch, or from tree to tree, now and then a leaf would be severed from its hold, and floating, dancing, eddying through the dreamy atmosphere, would settle down at length on its last resting-place—the earth.

Billy Brown was busily at work in his shop, seated at the “wheel pit” near the door, mortising hubs for wagon-wheels. Early in the morning the air had been chilly, and a fire was necessary, but it had gone down and the embers smouldered on the hearth. On the floor sat Frank, building imaginary houses from blocks gathered up about the shop. Near him lay “Ring,” the great house dog, so called from a white ring around his neck, though otherwise he was as black as nature well could make him. He was a faithful dog, Ring was, and followed Frank wherever he went, up and down the creek, through the laurel hill, or out to the barrens in search of the cows, and was only tempted to leave him when some very attractive game crossed his path.

The sun shone forth with all the soft brilliancy peculiar to the season. The gentle music of the Octorara, as it stole softly by, fell dreamily on the ear. From the meadow, on its opposite bank, could be heard the shrill “bob-white” of the partridge, while from the wood on the hill came the less musical bark of the squirrel.

In the barn, Neddy was at work threshing out the summer's crop, and the dull, regular sound of the flail re-echoed through the neighboring woods. From a wood nearly a mile away resounded the axes of the “boys,” who had that morning gone out to cut the winter's firewood.

“Father, there comes a stranger! there comes a stranger!” said Frank suddenly, as a man, riding from the direction of Carter's mill, stopped at the fence near the shop and was hitching his horse; “it's old Josey Bailey, he's comin' to have another meetin',” said he, as the man approached the shop.

“Hush! hush!” said his father in an undertone, “keep quiet.”

The man who was thus approaching has already been made known to our readers as a leading member of the Orthodox Friends. The boy's remarks had reference to the frequent interviews between the two parties, while the Orthodox were engaged in “disowning” the Hicksites.

“Well, Billy,” said he as he approached the shop and stood in front of the open door.

Billy Brown looked up from his work, glanced inquiringly at the stranger, said “well Josey,” and in a moment was as busy as ever with mallet and chisel.

The visitor leaned against the side of the doorway, hesitated a minute or two, and then began: “Is thee in want of any help just now, Billy?”

“No, I guess not,” was the quiet reply; while a still greater degree of curiosity flitted across his countenance.

“No threshing to do?” asked Josey in the same quiet tone.

“No,” was the reply, “Neddy is doing the threshing.”

“No wood to cut?” persisted the inquirer.

“No, the boys are cutting the winter's wood,” was answered.

“Nor corn to husk?”

“No, Peggy Keys is to husk the corn, I always give her that job.”

“Don't Margaret need any help, either?” persisted Josey, without the least symptoms of disappointment at the negative answers returned to all his inquiries.

“No, I guess not. Martha came home from Westtown last week, and she don't need any other help.”

Friend Bailey in the meantime looked as calm as a summer's morning. He knew that his visit would not be a failure, though all his preliminary questions had been answered negatively. He felt confident of success when the main question would come fairly up.

Seating himself on a large block, close by the door-sill, and looking quietly around, he said:

“Davy was over to see me last night, and he expects some folks along in a few days, and would like to have a place for them a little while.”

This was said in a low, earnest tone, and the remark seemed at once to have the desired effect. Billy Brown's interest in the matter was now fully aroused. He laid his mallet on the side of the wheel-pit, and looking up earnestly into the face of the questioner said:

“How many are there?”

“Only two, though I believe there is a child with them,” was the reply. “It is a man and woman, and their little boy about a year old. I thought this a good place for them to stay until Davy can take them on farther. I called to see Sammy Carter this morning and he thinks this as good a place as we can get. So I came up to see if you could take them.”

Billy Brown understood perfectly well that these were fugitive slaves, for whom shelter and a place of concealment was wanted until they could be conveyed to a place of greater safety. With strong and inveterate prejudices against the colored race, he was pre-eminently a just man, and would not knowingly permit a wrong to be done to any one when in his power to prevent it. Besides, the influence of the teaching of Friends made him all the more willing to do what was in his power to assist an escaping fugitive.

“I'll have to see mother about it,” he said at length, rising to his feet, “let's go to the house and see what she has to say.”

The two then walked slowly toward the house, which was some thirty or forty yards distant.

No one knew better than Billy Brown that asking “mother,” as he called his wife, about such a matter as this was a mere form. But it was his way; he never did anything of importance, or entered into any arrangement without first consulting her.

Margaret Brown was busily engaged in ironing, in the large kitchen, when the two entered. “Well, Margaret,” said Friend Bailey in his quiet way, “how is thee?” “I'm well; is thee well, Josey?” said she in a tone indicating surprise, while the corners of her mouth showed unusual firmness. She probably thought that he came on business connected with the division.

“Mother,” said Billy when they were seated, “Josey has come to see if we could keep some folks for a while that Davy expects to bring along soon. A man and woman and their child. He'll bring them here in a few days.”

The firm look about the corners of her mouth vanished, and her eye softened as she said: “Yes, I guess we can; somebody will have to keep them.”

“Grandfather Carter and Josey were talking it over this morning, and they thought they had better be brought here,” said Billy.

“Yes,” remarked the visitor, “this is rather a by-place, and they wouldn't be as likely to look for them here as some other places; besides you have no bad neighbors.”

“I think we can keep them,” said Margaret, “when will he bring them?”

“As soon as they arrive and rest a little,” said Josey; “they will be along in a few days.”

He then bid farewell and started out. With a look of satisfaction he mounted his horse, turned its head toward the creek, passed over the ford, and ascending the hill beyond was soon lost to sight in the distance.

At half-past eleven o'clock Martha Brown came out on the porch, with the tin dinner-horn, and blew on it loud and long. This she repeated three times, and then feeling sure that the boys and Neddy could not fail to hear it, she returned into the kitchen and bestirred herself to help set the tables and place dinner upon them.

We say “tables,” because the Brown family, following the custom of those days in that section, did not eat at the same table with the negroes. Consequently Neddy was always set at a table by himself. He had the same articles of food, was used precisely like the rest in every other particular, but was seated at a table by himself. He had always been used to this, and therefore considered it no degradation.

The boys came in a few minutes before twelve, hungry and tired. Frank was sent to the barn to tell Neddy again to come. When they were all seated at dinner Billy said:

“Neddy, I'm going to have a man to help us. Would thee like to have him help thrash?”

Neddy sometimes stammered, especially when a little excited,

“Wh—who is'e?” said he, a shade of dissatisfaction passing over his face.

“He's from Meraland,” was the reply, “one of Davy's men.”

“Dey's worth nothin'—ging—god I'se tried 'em,” said Neddy, evidently displeased at the idea of having competition in his field of labor, “dey's better off where dey is.”

“Come, Neddy,” said Margaret, “thee musn't talk that way; the poor creeters have been used very bad I expect.”

“Su—sum of 'em is,” said he, evidently relenting, “but sum's powerful on'ry. I'se seen a heap of em.”

“They'll be here in a day or two,” pursued Margaret, and we must take good care of 'em; they won't be here long.”

“Yes 'um,” said Neddy, evidently softened toward the fugitives by this last remark.

After dinner was over Margaret said: “Neddy, Frank's Guinea hen has stolen her nest somewhere in the Laurel hill; we've all been trying to find it. The boys have hunted for it, and Martha and me have been all over the hill. We hear her cackling there ev'ry day but can't find a bit of it.” “Can't thee find it for us?”

“Yes 'um,” said Neddy, “guess I might,” and away he started toward the hill.

In about ten minutes Neddy came back, his large, honest black face fairly shining with delight; in his old felt hat were ten or twelve Guinea eggs.

“Well, I do say! how is it thee always finds things,” said Margaret, “here we've been hunting for that nest for more'n a week, and thee found it in a few minutes.”

“Dun no,” said Neddy, “I jes' went over dar to de rock fornentz de barn up in de lorrels, and dar's de nest, in under de edge of de rock, hind a little bush.”

“Well, I declare! and we were all round that rock. Neddy, thee's a lit le too sharp for the rest of us.” Neddy walked off toward the barn a good deal flattered with this remark.

“It seems so queer that Neddy can always find everything,” said Margaret, when he was gone.

The evenings were quite cool. As they were seated that evening around the broad kitchen fireplace, on which a bright fire was burning, Margaret said:

“Father, I've just been wondering where we'll put these folks when they come; I guess we'll have to fix up a place in the garret for them.”

“Well,” said Billy, “I guess that will do very well.”

NIGHT settled down dark and chill in the vicinity of Brown's ford. In the gloaming, heavy clouds were seen scudding across from the eastward, and the low moaning of the wind through the forest betokened an approaching storm. From the tall oaks on Laurel hill great owls sent forth their “who—hoo, who—hoo, who—hoo—e,” which was answered by others from the direction of Carter's mill, adding to the gloom and loneliness of the scene.

The family were seated around the broad kitchen fire-place, from which an ample fire, blazing up the great throat of the chimney, sent light and heat throughout the room.

“The owls are makin' a heap of noise to-night,” said Billy, looking up from the newspaper which he had been reading, “it's a purty sure sign of a storm. I guess we're going to have the Equinoctial.”

“I wonder if them people will come to-night,” said Margaret, looking out into the impenetrable gloom; “it's dreadful dark.”

“Yes, they'll come. Davy would sooner come a dark night than a light one,” was the answer.

HENRY BROWN, and Samuel Weaver, the apprentice, awakened before daylight the next morning and found the storm had broken in full fury. The rain poured down in torrents, while the wind shrieked around the building like the wailing of unquiet spirits. They arose, and dressing themselves in the darkness, groped their way to the kitchen. Here they proceeded to make the fire. Drawing forward the live coals which had been covered with ashes, they deposited the latter in an old tin bucket that was used for the purpose; and then proceeded to put the “back-log” in position This was an immense log, usually gnarled or knotty, and was laid at the back of the fire-place, against the wall. The andirons were then put in their places and a much smaller log placed on them; this was called the fore-stick. The space between the back-log and fore-stick was now filled up with smaller wood, and on top of it the coals that had been preserved were placed. Some kindling, that had been brought from the shop the evening before, was then applied, and soon a cheerful fire rewarded their labors.

Henry then took the iron tea-kettle, which was sitting on the dish-bench, filled it with spring water, that had been brought up the evening before, and hung it over the fire to boil. He then lighted a tallow-candle, carried it up to Martha's room door and awakened her, saying it was time to get up.

John and Mary came down at the first appearance of daylight, leaving the little boy still sleeping.

The “old folks,” as Margaret and Billy were called by the boys, slept later than usual, and when they appeared breakfast was nearly ready.

The table where Neddy eat when there, was set out for the fugitives, and a plentiful meal placed on it; they eat but little, however, and Mary left the table to go up-stairs for her boy. She soon brought him down and seated him near the fire.

“Neddy'll hardly be here to-day,” said Billy, “It's raining too hard. John, I had intended thee to help him thrash; can thee thrash?”

“Yes, sir,” said John, mechanically.

“It's too damp to thrash to-day; I guess thee may clean out the stables. Does thee know how to do that?”

“Yes, sir, I dun clean 'em out.”

“I'll show thee how we do it; there's not much else for thee to do to-day, it's so wet.”

After breakfast Billy accompanied John to the barn and instructed him in the art and mystery of cleaning stables. There was not much to do, and he expected the job would be finished before dinner. He then repaired to the shop, where he and the boys worked industriously till noon.

BILLY BROWN could not divest himself of the feeling that something unpleasant would happen before long. This was rather an impression, for which he could give no adequate cause, than a conviction founded on reason. He knew Sam Doan and regarded him as a reckless, unprincipled creature; but he had never heard of his being engaged in or connected with the business of kidnapping. He knew Margaret's utter abhorrence of the man; but attributed this in a great measure to prejudice formed in childhood, and thought it, perhaps, unjust in her to jump at once to the conclusion that he would assist in giving information or in capturing the fugitives. Still he thought the case, as he had said, was in bad hands, and he resolved to lose no time in letting Davy know about it. With this resolve in his mind he fell asleep.

He awakened with the conviction that something had disturbed his rest. He listened, and a scarcely perceptible sound, as of some one moving about in the kitchen below, attracted his attention. He raised his head, and reaching over the side of the bed, bent his ear in the direction from whence it came. It still continued at intervals, and the conviction gained strength in his mind that some person was there. It could not be the cat, she would not be moving about unless in search of rats, and then she would be more noiseless in her movements; it must be some person. He resolved to see.

Slipping quietly out of bed, he softly opened the door of his room and glided down-stairs. There was but a thin board partition between him and the kitchen, and he heard movements more distinctly, and was convinced that some one was there. He was barefoot, and had nothing on but his night-shirt, but for this there was no remedy. Any attempt to return and dress himself, or even to put on his shoes, would alarm the intruder and result in his escape. He determined to run no risk of this kind; his object being to bag the game if possible. Gliding silently to the bottom of the stairway, he reached out his hand to unlatch the door. A little excitement, probably, unsteadied his hand, or, peradventure, he was rather hasty in his anxiety to get a glimpse at the uninvited occupant of the kitchen; at any rate he did not succeed in opening the door noiselessly; the latch clicked, and there was a quick movement and a rush across the floor. He pushed the door open just in time to see the form of a man getting out at the front window. Billy made for the door, but he had to draw the long wooden bolt with which it was fastened and this gave the fellow a start. There was no moon, but the night was clear and there was sufficient starlight to distinguish objects at a short distance. He fancied, as he caught a glimpse of the man clambering through the window, that he carried a bundle of things in his arms and inferred that he had stolen them. When the door was opened the thief was outside of the yard, and had started up the road in the direction of Carter's mill. Friend Brown went for him. He was now fully aroused, and the cause was one that demanded his best efforts. On they went, pursuer and pursued, each one straining every nerve and doing his level best.

The wood which intervened between Brown's and Carter's mill was a half mile or more long, and traversed by a narrow road, rough and stony. Two-thirds of this distance was level, and then a hill succeeded, at the top of which the wood terminated. Into this wood they plunged, the Quaker in his night-shirt, his black locks streaming in the wind, and the cold, rough ground and sharp stones, with which the road abounded, telling fearfully on his bare feet. The thief, who was a powerful man and swift of foot, strained every muscle to distance his pursuer. But the load of plunder which he carried began to tell against him. Ere they had gone a hundred yards his pursuer had recovered half the distance lost at the start, and was gaining rapidly. Dismayed at this, he began to drop, one by one, the articles he had taken, but he had carried them too long; the extra weight affected his wind, and the Quaker still slowly gained. By this time the pursuer's feet were growing sore, and his pluck had lost its first keen edge; but still he cherished not the slightest intent of giving up the chase. When they reached the foot of the hill the thief looked back over his shoulder, and saw the Quaker's night-shirt, like a wandering spirit, fluttering in the darkness close behind him. His renewed fears overcame his greed, and he dropped his entire load and sped forward with all his energies.

Friend Brown, too, confident that the prey was now within his grasp, called up every latent energy, and, regardless of his bleeding, lacerated feet, and the stones that bruised and cut them at every step, urged himself forward, inspired by the hope of a speedy triumph. Up the hill these two toiled, the pursuer slowly gaining. Just as they reached the top he felt secure of triumph. He was close behind the thief, and felt that he had him secure. Reaching out his hand and placing it on the fellow's shoulder, he yelled (disregarding the language of Friends entirely), “Stop, you scoundrel!” This was his great mistake, as it was the other's safety. Instead of obeying, he made a flank movement by jumping to one side, and then, darting forward with renewed speed, left the Quaker far behind.

Friend Brown felt that the race was over, and that he must retrace his steps. This was no easy job; his feet were bruised and bleeding, and numb with cold. The excitement was over, and at every step he felt intense pain. Every time he ventured forward he could scarcely repress an exclamation of pain. He went into the woods, and sitting down on some moss by the root of a great tree, took off his shirt and wrapped up his feet in it. He pressed it against them and warmed and soothed them as well as he could, and then started on his homeward journey. He kept in the woods, away from the road, where the ground was soft and where the fallen leaves afforded some protection to his feet, and slowly made his way to the house. When he reached there he found the door open and the window up just as they had been left. Not a soul had been awakened but himself; so he quietly closed the door, let down the window, and after warming himself by the coals on the hearth went back to bed as quietly as he had left it.

In the morning he called to the apprentice, who had the fire made before daylight, and telling what had happened, directed him when it was light to go over the road and pick up such articles as he could find scattered along it.

He returned just as the family were sitting down to breakfast, with an armful of various kinds of things. There were pairs of stockings, balls of woolen-yarn, skeins of flax-yarn, pairs of mittens, combs, large pieces of bread and meat, and many other articles that the thief had taken but dropped in his flight. Margaret declared, after a careful examination, that every article taken had been recovered. He had not kept a single thing; indeed, he had lost his hat, a white wool one, which the apprentice also found and brought back with him.

Joe Simmons laughed immoderately when he heard of the night's adventure. He was as much pleased with the fact that the intruder was not after the fugitives, as he was amused at the odd and exciting race that had taken place.

When Neddy came he was told of the affair, and shown the lost hat. “Does thee know whose it is?” asked Billy.

Neddy looked at it carefully for some time and then said: “Ye—yes, I do, ging-god, it's Ben's.”

“What Ben?”

“Be—Ben Boodley's.”

Neddy then told of Ben being at his house the night before, and leaving early in the night. All hands agreed that Ben was the thief. Indeed, Billy, who knew him, remembered now that the man he had pursued very much resembled Ben in general appearance.

All hands, however, agreed that inasmuch as the stolen articles had all been recovered, and Ben badly frightened, that it was just as well to let the affair drop. He would leave the neighborhood and not likely return for several months; at any rate he would not venture into Billy Brown's kitchen very soon again.

Neddy and John went to work again at thrashing the rye. Billy said he could not go to see Davy till Henry returned, which would be about noon; his feet were too sore to walk and his only horse was away.

Henry came back a little before noon. He had met with good luck; everything had gone well; and the man was well pleased with his job. He incidentally mentioned, in speaking of his journey, that he had met Sam Doan in the neighborhood of Conowingo bridge, going in that direction.

Margaret's cheek paled. Joe Simmons and Billy looked at each other meaningly but said nothing.

After a pause the latter remarked: “Henry, feed the horse an' rub him down carefully. I think I'll use him this afternoon.”

Margaret had killed a chicken, and with it and the squirrels Joe Simmons had brought, made a superb pot-pie for dinner. Joe praised it highly, at which she evinced a great deal of quiet satisfaction.

After dinner Joe left, much to the regret of the whole family. He declared, however, he would be down again “to-morrow night.” At present he could stay no longer.

Billy went to the stable after dinner and brought out the horse. He looked so tired and weary he could not think of riding him. He wanted to see Davy, and his feet were too sore to walk. What would he do? He resolved to send Neddy.

Calling him out of the barn, he entrusted him with the whole story, and told of the suspicions he had with regard to an attempt being made for the re-capture of the fugitives. He closed by directing him to tell Davy all about it, and to say nothing to any one else unless directed by him to do so. He was to come back that night and report.

John and the boys were sent out to continue the cutting of the winter's fire-wood; the barn-doors were closed, the flails hung in their places, and Friend Brown went to work, as usual, in the shop.

Mary had listened to the account of the night's adventure with a good deal of attention and no small degree of alarm. True, it was evident that the man was only a thief, and probably knew nothing of fugitive slaves being in the neighborhood. But the fact remained that there was some one lurking about the premises at night, and this was to her cause for alarm. Every incident of an unusual character produced anxiety in her mind. If the dog barked she feared some one was coming to carry away her child. If a stranger approached she saw in him a kidnapper to bear him back to slavery. The fact that the house had been visited and entered at night served to deepen her anxiety and increase her unhappiness.

Some time during the afternoon Mary was assisting Margaret in hanging out some clothes they had washed; little Charlie was sitting on the kitchen floor, looking at some block houses that Frank was building for his amusement; Mary's watchful eye discovered in the distance some half dozen persons approaching by the road which passed in front of the barn. Quick as thought she leaped from the chair on which she was standing, bounded into the kitchen, and snatching up Charlie, clasped him convulsively to her breast, and rushed into the stairway leading into the cellar. Here she seated herself upon the topmost step, presenting such a picture of absolute, perfect terror as no human language can describe.

It was an embodiment of dumb, speechless agony that defies the proper use of words to convey any adequate conception of. It was not ordinary fear or fright—it was not a concern for personal safety—it was the surging waves of a woman's soul, stirred to their profoundest depths by a mother's love, and a mother's fear for the safety of her child.

It is remarkable how deeply some incidents are impressed upon the mind in childhood. It is then more susceptible, and the impressions are more enduring than in after life. Affairs that are readily forgotten by persons grown to man's estate, imbed themselves in the recollection of children and are fresh and green in them through life, often exercising most important influence in the formation of their characters.

Frank, who was seated on the floor, looked at the woman in blank amazement. He saw that she was alarmed and he felt that she was under the influence of some powerful feeling, but