“There,” said Cassy, as she fixed the lamp into a small hook, which she had driven into the side of the box for that purpose; “this is to be our home for the present.  How do you like it?”

“Are you sure they won’t come and search the garret?”

“I’d like to see Simon Legree doing that,” said Cassy.  “No, indeed; he will be too glad to keep away.  As to the servants, they would any of them stand and be shot, sooner than show their faces here.”

Somewhat reassured, Emmeline settled herself back on her pillow.

“What did you mean, Cassy, by saying you would kill me?” she said, simply.

“I meant to stop your fainting,” said Cassy, “and I did do it.  And now I tell you, Emmeline, you must make up your mind not to faint, let what will come; there’s no sort of need of it.  If I had not stopped you, that wretch might have had his hands on you now.”

Emmeline shuddered.

The two remained some time in silence.  Cassy busied herself with a French book; Emmeline, overcome with the exhaustion, fell into a doze, and slept some time.  She was awakened by loud shouts and outcries, the tramp of horses’ feet, and the baying of dogs.  She started up, with a faint shriek.

“Only the hunt coming back,” said Cassy, coolly; “never fear.  Look out of this knot-hole.  Don’t you see ’em all down there?  Simon has to give up, for this night.  Look, how muddy his horse is, flouncing about in the swamp; the dogs, too, look rather crestfallen.  Ah, my good sir, you’ll have to try the race again and again,—­the game isn’t there.”

“O, don’t speak a word!” said Emmeline; “what if they should hear you?”

“If they do hear anything, it will make them very particular to keep away,” said Cassy.  “No danger; we may make any noise we please, and it will only add to the effect.”

At length the stillness of midnight settled down over the house.  Legree, cursing his ill luck, and vowing dire vengeance on the morrow, went to bed.

CHAPTER XL

The Martyr

     “Deem not the just by Heaven forgot! 
     Though life its common gifts deny,—­
     Though, with a crushed and bleeding heart,
     And spurned of man, he goes to die! 
     For God hath marked each sorrowing day,
     And numbered every bitter tear,
     And heaven’s long years of bliss shall pay
     For all his children suffer here.” 
     BRYANT.*

* This poem does not appear in the collected works of William Cullen Bryant, nor in the collected poems of his brother, John Howard Bryant.  It was probably copied from a newspaper or magazine.

The longest way must have its close,—­the gloomiest night will wear on to a morning.  An eternal, inexorable lapse of moments is ever hurrying the day of the evil to an eternal night, and the night of the just to an eternal day.  We have walked