one more fond parting.  Laying her right arm over her shoulder, and pressing her to her bosom, she kisses and kisses her fair cheek, bids her remember that God alone is her protector, her guide to a happy future.  In freedom may she live to freedom’s God; in slavery, hope ever, and trust in his mercy!  With this admonition, the excited girl, trembling, leaves the Villa, leaning on Franconia’s arm.  Bradshaw has the carriage at the door, piled with sundry boxes and portmanteaus, giving it the appearance of a gentleman’s travelling equipage.  He has orders to drive to the steam-boat landing, where the young invalid planter will embark for New York via Wilmington and the land route.  Soon they have taken their seats, and with Rosebrook’s good-natured face shining beside Bradshaw, on the front seat, they say their happy adieu! and bound over the road for the steamer.

It is now within fifteen minutes of the starting time.  The wharf presents a bustling scene:  carriages and coaches are arriving with eager-looking passengers, who, fearing they are a little behind time, stare about as if bewildered, scold heedless drivers, point out heir baggage to awkward porters who run to and fro with trunks and boxes on their heads, and then nervously seek the ticket-office, where they procure the piece of paper that insures them through to New York.  Albeit, finding they have quite time enough on their hands, they escort their female voyagers on board, and loiter about in the way of every one else, enjoying that excitement in others which they have fortunately passed through.  Here and there about the wharf, leaning their head carelessly over black piles, are sly-looking policemen, who scan every voyager with a searching eye.  They are incog., but the initiated recognise them at a glance.  The restless leer of that lynx eye discovers their object; anything, from a runaway nigger to a houseless debtor, is to them acceptable prey.  Atween decks of the steamer, secured at the end of the wharf, another scene of bustle and confusion presents itself.  A passenger is not quite sure his baggage is all on board, and must needs waste his breath in oaths at the dumb porter, who works at his utmost strength, under the direction of Mr. Mate, whose important figure is poised on the wharf.  Another wants to “lay over” at Richmond, and is using most abusive language to a mulatto waiter, who has put his trunk on one side of the boat and carpet bag on the other.  A third, a fussy old lady with two rosy-faced daughters she is, against her southern principles, taking to the north to be educated, is making a piteous lamentation over the remains of two bonnets-just from the hands of the milliner-hopelessly smashed in her bandbox.  The careless porter set it on a pile of baggage, from where it tottled over under the feet of an astonished gentleman, who endeavours to soothe the good lady’s feelings with courteous apologies.  On the upper deck, heeding no one, but now and then affecting to