But as the simplest strategy is often the most successful of results, so did it prove in this particular case; for, be it known, that on the morning of the twenty-fourth of March,—­, was Molly Hardweather’s suggestion adopted and effectually carried out, to the gratification of sundry interested persons.  Calm and bright was that morning; Charleston harbour and its pretty banks seemed radiant of loveliness:  the phantom-like Maggy Bell, with mainsail and jib spread motionless in the air, swung gently at anchor midway the stream; and Dame Hardweather sat in the dingy cabin, her little chubby face beaming contentment as she nursed the “t’other twin.”  The brusque figure of old Jack, immersed in watchfulness, paced to and fro the Maggy’s deck; and in the city as trim a young sailor as ever served signal halliards on board man-o’-war, might be seen, his canvas bag slung over his shoulder, carelessly plodding along through the busy street, for the landing at the market slip.  Soon the Maggy’s flying jib was run up, then the foresail followed and hung loose by the throat.  Near the wheel, as if in contemplation, sat Montague, while Hardweather continued his pacing, now glancing aloft, then to seaward, as if invoking Boreas’ all-welcome aid, and again watching intently in the direction of the slip.  A few minutes more and a boat glided from the wharf, and rowed away for the little craft, which it soon reached, and on board of which the young sailor flung his bag, clambered over the rail, and seemed happy, as old Jack put out his brawny hand, saying:  “Come youngster, bear a hand now, and set about brightening up the coppers!” We need not here discover the hearts that leaped with joy just then; we need not describe the anxiety that found relief when the young sailor set foot on the Maggy’s deck; nor need we describe those eyes on shore that in tears watched the slender form as it disappeared from sight.  Just then a breeze wafted from the north, the anchor was hove up, the sails trimmed home, and slowly seaward moved the little bark.  As she drifted rather than sailed past Fort Pinkney, two burly officials, as is the custom, boarded to search for hapless fugitives; but, having great confidence in the honesty of Skipper Splitwater, who never failed to give them of his best cheer, they drank a pleasant passage to him, made a cursory search, a note of the names of all on board (Jack saying Tom Bolt was the young sailor’s), and left quite satisfied.  Indeed, there was nothing to excite their suspicions, for the good dame sat nursing the “twa twins,” nor left aught to discover the discrepancy between their ages, if we except a pair of little red feet that dangled out from beneath the fringe of a plaid shawl.  And the young sailor, who it is hardly necessary to inform the reader is Annette, was busy with his cooking.  And now the little craft, free upon the wave, increased her speed as her topsails spread out, and glided swiftly seaward, heaven tempering the winds to her well-worn sails.  God speed the Maggy Bell as she vaults over the sea; and may she never want water under keel, slaves to carry into freedom, or a good Dame Hardweather to make cheerful the little cabin! say we.