“Look ’e hyar, Massa, you’s good to we uns, an’ fo’ de Lo’d I tank you. Ef enny No’then gemmen hankah fur my chances in the Souf I’zins in favor ob de same. For de good Lo’d, I tank you, I do _suah_.” “Hist, you black rascal,” said the man in the doorway, “And see here, Henry, remember you never were at my house with a lot of damned niggers in the night. Do you understand?” “All right, sir. No man will ever charge you with abolitionism. If he does, call on me. I can swear you denounce it in most unmeasured terms.” The rain had now ceased; the stars were out and the party trudged rapidly down to the lake, caring little for the mud and wet. The boat was found in waiting, and Martin and his wife had just waded out to it when Henry and Sam, standing on the shore, had their attention attracted by a noise, as the crushing of a fence-board, and looking to the westward they saw a man sliding down the bank into the shadow. Old “’tection” was immediately brought to aim, so exact that had Henry not struck the barrel upward just as the trigger was pulled, sending the ball whistling in the air, there could not have failed a subject for a “first-class funeral.” The sneak took to his heels, Sam took to the boat, and Henry stood long upon the shore peering into the darkness, catching the rich, mellow tones of Mrs. Martin’s voice as she warbled forth in real negro minstrelsy, interrupted by an occasional “’lujah” from Sam as the boat receded, “There is a railrod undergroun’ On which de negroes lope, An’ when dey gets dare ticket Dare hearts is full ob hope; De engine nebber whistles An’ de cars dey make no noise, But dey carry off de darkies, Dare wives, an’ girls, an’ boys.” Returning homeward, Mr. Henry traced the human sleuth-hound by his footsteps in the mud, the nibbling of his horses where they had been left, and the marks of his carriage wheels at Wesleyville where they turned toward Erie, and were lost in the new made tracks of the early morning marketers. VIII. Time passed; the years of the war came and went; peace smiled upon the country; John Brown and young Coppoc slept beneath sodded mounds, whilst the soul of the former went “marching on,” and the genial, generous Henry was keeping the lighthouse on the eastern extremity of Presque Isle, at the entrance of Erie harbor or bay. Going over to the city one day he received a letter bearing the Dominion post-mark. It was without date, and with some difficulty he deciphered the following: _Dere Ser, Mistur Henri_: