John Ranger sighed helplessly. “I worked the underground railroad last night for all it was worth, in the interest of some runaway niggers,” he said under his breath; then audibly, “The laws of the land must be obeyed, my child.” “The law is a fiend,” cried Jean, who had entered the room unobserved and had stood listening in the shadow of the chimney jamb. “I’ll never rest till this awful one-sided power is broken. You know yourself that it’s a monster, daddie. I know you know it, or you’d never help a run—” He put his finger on his lips, and the girl changed the subject. The underground railroad was a forbidden topic in the Ranger household. “Because Sally Danover knew no better than to become the wife of an unworthy man,—who knew what he was about, though she didn’t,—the law declares that all the benefits resulting from the fraudulent transaction must accrue to the villain in the case, and all the penalties must be borne by his victim. What would you do to such a fellow, daddie, if I should marry him?” John Ranger did not answer, but gazed steadily into the fire, his brow contracted and his thoughts gloomy. “Sally, cheer up!” cried Jean, shaking the woman by the shoulder. “Daddie’s a whole lot better man than he thinks he is. I’ve seen him tested. You’re as good as a nigger, if you _are_ white, and he’ll help you.” “You don’t know what you’re talking about, my daughter. It’s a crime to break the law, and crime must be followed by fitting punishment.” “If you get caught, you get punished,” cried Jean, laughing in her father’s face. “To break such a law would be an act of heroism for which I should be glad to be arrested and sent to jail! It would be an act of heroism beside which the defence of the Stars and Stripes would be cowardice!” she cried in a transport of fury. “Come, Jean,” said her father, rising, “we must go to supper. Won’t you join us, Mrs. O’Dowd?” “Food would choke me,” said the visitor, bowing herself out. “Hang the luck!” said the Squire, as the door slammed behind her. “What are you going to do to help the poor woman, John?” asked Mrs. Ranger, as the family sat at the belated meal. “Ask Jean.” “What do you know about the case, daughter?” “She thinks she knows a lot,” interrupted her father. “She’d ’a’ made a plaguy good lawyer if she’d only been born a boy.” “Who knew best what I ought to be,—you or God?” asked Jean, her eyes glowing like stars. “I give it up,” replied her father, smiling. “I was reading to-day,” said Mrs. Ranger, “of a man down East who lured his runaway wife back home by stealing the babies and then warning everybody through the papers, and by posters, not to trust or harbor her, under penalty of the law. The woman held out quite a spell, but cold and hunger got the better of her at last; and when the stolen children fell sick, she went back to her lawful protector and stayed till she died, as meek as any lamb.”