In the northwest part of Andover, Ohio, resides an old patriarch, Jehaziel Carpenter, familiarly known as “the Deacon,” now numbering his over ninety summers. For over sixty years he has tenanted on the same farm, and his home has ever been one of the broadest hospitality, and to none more so than to the panting fugitive. Just a little way off stands the rather tall, old-fashioned country house of his former neighbor, Garlic, whose language never betrayed the fact that he had any official church relation. In fact we think his name, significant as it was, had no place on the muster roll of the church militant, and yet he was _game_ in many a hard fight for truth and righteousness. V. Cleveland and vicinity was flooded with circulars, advertising a man, wife and child, who had been traced to that city, and offering a large reward for their delivery to the reputed owner. Friend and foe were alike on the lookout. Efforts were making by the one to secure them a passage across the lake, whilst the other was as assiduously watching every vessel to prevent their escape. Thus matters stood when the man, Martin by name, looking out of an upper window, espied his master among the passers by on Water street. This being communicated to those who had them in charge, it was at once determined the family should not be shipped by lake. That night, when all was quiet and still, a close carriage passed out Pittsburgh street, and before daylight Martin and his wife were in safe quarters near Chagrin Falls. Thence they were taken the next night to the home of Mr. Cook, in Middlefield, and as rapidly transmitted by him to a pious old deacon’s in Gustavus. VI. Night had settled down over village and farm house; Deacon Jehaziel’s evening prayers had been said and he was quietly dreaming of the time “When you and I were young, Maggie,” and Garlic, just returned from Jefferson, had turned his horse into the pasture, when up to the door of each came a vehicle. Garlic at once recognized the horse of the old Baptist Boanerges, Tinan, from Rome, whilst the deacon was aroused by the quieter voice of his Congregational brother from Gustavus. What transpired from this time until the city of Erie was reached is buried in the tombs of Garlic, a Hayward, a Gould and a Drury. VII. In the township of Harbor Creek, Pa., east of the city of Erie, and a short distance out of Wesleyville, was the farm house of Frank Henry, a man of medium size, black hair, eyes of the same hue and sparkling like diamonds, nervous temperament, quick, wiry and the soul of honor and generosity. For a young man he was one of the best known and most efficient conductor-agents in Western Pennsylvania. About midsummer, 1858, he received the following note:— ERIE, Pa., 51, 7, 5881. _Dear Frank_: