of her unrest.  Wait had made known to her on the night of his decease the secret of the young man’s origin, and had conjured her to do justice to the lad.  Her self-love had deterred her in consummating this duty, and conscience had therefore tortured her.  She was enabled to reach New York, where she left the preacher’s son the bulk of her property, and received his gratitude and forgiveness before she died.

Paul was free—­haunted no longer by premonitions of future suffering; and his first impulse was to return to the Eastern shore and discover his desolate parents.  His recollections of them were imperfect.  He preserved many trifling circumstances, though more important events were forgotten; but as he made his way to the old village his heart beat high.  There were the negro quarters, the cornfields, the twisting fences, and, at last, the shady stone parsonage—­recollections they seemed of objects beheld in a foggy dream.  They directed him to the Methodist Church—­a prim, square structure in the centre of the village—­a tavern on one side, a court-house and market on the other; and when the sexton threw open a window, the bleared light fell upon a marble slab set in the wall: 

          “Near this spot lie the remains of
               REV.  TITUS BATES,
      for two years Pastor of this Congregation,
          and of PEGGY, his Wife. 
   ’They have ceased from their labors, and their
               works do follow them.’”

Paul’s hopes fell.  He walked through the village friendless, and, impelled by his swift-coming fancies, strolled far into the suburbs.  A crowd was collected round a squalid negro cabin, and, less by interest than by instinct, he bent his steps toward it.

“What is the matter, friend?” he asked of a bystander.

“The boys hez scented kidnappers to this shanty,” answered the man; “and by doggy! they going to trap ’em!”

The mob seemed to be fearfully incensed as Paul pushed close to the scene.  There were said to be two of the man-stealers, both of whom had been very daring and successful.  He heard their names called as Peter Gettis and Dave Goule, and the opinion was expressed that the first-named would not yield without a desperate struggle.  The mob was hot and clamorous, and while a selected committee entered the den to search it, the rest brandished clubs and knives, and yelled for justice and blood.  Word came at length that the kidnappers were concealed beneath the floor of the cabin; and at the hint, a score of stalwart fellows began to pull up the planks, while their associates formed a wide circle around, prepared to prevent escape.

Finally, the cry arose:  “Here they air!  This is them!  Drag ’em out!  Whoo-oop!”

The men within the cabin rushed through the doors and windows as if pursued, and a stalwart negro, with bloodshot eyes, almost naked, and flourishing a huge knife, staggered to the threshold, and glared fiercely round him.