Moye had not been seen or heard of, and the Colonel’s trip was fruitless.  While at Wilmington, he sent telegrams, directing the overseer’s arrest, to the various large cities of the South, and then decided to return, make some arrangements preliminary to a protracted absence from the plantation, and proceed at once to Charleston, where he would await replies to his dispatches.  Andy agreed with him in the opinion that Moye, in his weak state of health, would not undertake an overland journey to the free States, but would endeavor to reach some town on the Mississippi, where he could dispose of the horse, and secure a passage up the river.

As no time was to be lost, it was decided that we should return to the plantation on the following morning.  Accordingly, with the first streak of day, we bade ‘good-by’ to our Union friend, and started homeward.

No incident worthy of mention occurred on the way, till about ten o’clock, when we arrived at the home of the Yankee schoolmistress, where we had been so hospitably entertained two days before.  The lady received us with great cordiality, forced upon us a lunch to serve our hunger on the road, and when we parted, enjoined on me to leave the South at the earliest possible moment.  She was satisfied it would not for a much longer time be safe quarters for a man professing Union sentiments.  Notwithstanding the strong manifestations of loyalty I had observed among the people, I was convinced that the advice of my pretty ‘countrywoman’ was judicious, and I determined to be governed by it.

Our horses, unaccustomed to lengthy journeys, had not entirely recovered from the fatigues of their previous travel, and we did not reach our destination till an hour after dark.  We were most cordially welcomed by Madam P——­, who soon set before us a hot supper, which, as we were jaded by the long ride, and had fasted for twelve hours on bacon sandwiches and cold hoe-cake, was the one thing needful for us.

While seated at the table, the Colonel asked: 

‘Has every thing gone right, Alice, since we left home?’

‘Every thing,’ replied the lady, ‘except,’ and she hesitated as if she dreaded the effect of the news; ’except—­that Juley and her child have gone.’

‘Gone!’ exclaimed my host, ‘gone where?’

’I don’t know.  We have searched every where, but have found no clue to them.  The morning you left, Sam set Juley at work among the pines; she tried hard, but could not do a full task, and at night was taken to the cabin to be whipped.  I heard of it, and forbade Sam’s doing it.  It did not seem to me to be right to punish her for not doing what she had not strength to do.  When she was released from the cabin, she came to thank me for having interfered for her, and talked with me awhile.  She cried and took on fearfully about Sam, and was afraid you would punish her on your return.  I promised you would not, and when she left me, she seemed more cheerful.  I supposed she would go directly home, after getting her child from the nurse’s quarters; but it appears she then went to Pompey’s, where she staid till after ten o’clock.  Neither she nor the child have since been seen.’