Her mother was the old Aggie I have spoken of.  She lived in a small tenement belonging to my grandmother, and built on the same lot with her own house.  Her dwelling was searched and watched, and that brought the patrols so near me that I was obliged to keep very close in my den.  The hunters were somehow eluded; and not long afterwards Benny accidentally caught sight of Fanny in her mother’s hut.  He told his grandmother, who charged him never to speak of it, explaining to him the frightful consequences; and he never betrayed the trust.  Aggie little dreamed that my grandmother knew where her daughter was concealed, and that the stooping form of her old neighbor was bending under a similar burden of anxiety and fear; but these dangerous secrets deepened the sympathy between the two old persecuted mothers.

My friend Fanny and I remained many weeks hidden within call of each other; but she was unconscious of the fact.  I longed to have her share my den, which seemed a more secure retreat than her own; but I had brought so much trouble on my grandmother, that it seemed wrong to ask her to incur greater risks.  My restlessness increased.  I had lived too long in bodily pain and anguish of spirit.  Always I was in dread that by some accident, or some contrivance, slavery would succeed in snatching my children from me.  This thought drove me nearly frantic, and I determined to steer for the North Star at all hazards.  At this crisis, Providence opened an unexpected way for me to escape.  My friend Peter came one evening, and asked to speak with me.  “Your day has come, Linda,” said he.  “I have found a chance for you to go to the Free States.  You have a fortnight to decide.”  The news seemed too good to be true; but Peter explained his arrangements, and told me all that was necessary was for me to say I would go.  I was going to answer him with a joyful yes, when the thought of Benny came to my mind.  I told him the temptation was exceedingly strong, but I was terribly afraid of Dr. Flint’s alleged power over my child, and that I could not go and leave him behind.  Peter remonstrated earnestly.  He said such a good chance might never occur again; that Benny was free, and could be sent to me; and that for the sake of my children’s welfare I ought not to hesitate a moment.  I told him I would consult with uncle Phillip.  My uncle rejoiced in the plan, and bade me go by all means.  He promised, if his life was spared, that he would either bring or send my son to me as soon as I reached a place of safety.  I resolved to go, but thought nothing had better be said to my grandmother till very near the time of departure.  But my uncle thought she would feel it more keenly if I left here so suddenly.  “I will reason with her,” said he, “and convince her how necessary it is, not only for your sake, but for hers also.  You cannot be blind to the fact that she is sinking under her burdens.”  I was not blind to it.  I knew that my concealment was an ever-present source of anxiety, and that the older she grew the more nervously fearful she was of discovery.  My uncle talked with her, and finally succeeded in persuading her that it was absolutely necessary for me to seize the chance so unexpectedly offered.