His creature wants were accordingly supplied. We must not forget that the dialogue was carried on in the intervals in which he paused from eating the supper which, in anticipation of his coming, the old woman had provided. Then followed the recapitulation of the narrative, details being furnished which showed that Dunbar, desperate from opposition to his will, had thrown off all the restraints of social fear and decency, and was urging his measures against old Sabb and his daughter with tyrannical severity. He had given the old man a sufficient taste of his power, enough to make him dread the exercise of what remained. This rendered him now, what he had never been before, the advocate himself with his daughter in behalf of the loyalist. Sabb’s virtue was not of a self-sacrificing nature. He was not a bad man—was rather what the world esteems a good one. He was just, as well as he knew to be, in his dealings with a neighbor; was not wanting in that charity, which, having first ascertained its own excess of goods, gives a certain proportion to the needy; he had offerings for the church, and solicited its prayers. But he had not the courage and strength of character to be virtuous in spite of circumstances. In plain language, he valued the securities and enjoyments of his homestead, even at the peril of his daughter’s happiness. He urged with tears and reproaches, that soon became vehement, the suit of Dunbar as if it had been his own; and even his good _vrow_, Minnecker Sabb, overwhelmed by his afflictions and her own, joined somewhat in his entreaty. We may imagine poor Frederica’s afflictions. She had not dared to reveal to either the secret of her marriage with Coulter. She now dreaded its discovery, in regard to the probable effect which it might have upon Dunbar. What limit would there be to his fury and brutality, should the fact become known to him? How measure his rage—how meet its excesses? She trembled as she reflected upon the possibility of his making the discovery; and while inly swearing eternal fidelity to her husband, she resolved still to keep her secret close from all, looking to the chapter of providential events for that hope which she had not the power to draw from any thing within human probability. Her eyes naturally turned to her husband, first of all mortal agents. But she had no voice which could reach to him—and what was his condition? She conjectured the visits of old Brough to his spouse, but with these she was prevented from all secret conference. Her hope was, that Mimy, seeing and hearing for herself, would duly report to the African; and he, she well knew, would keep nothing from her husband. We have witnessed the conference between this venerable couple. The result corresponded with the anticipations of Frederica. Brough hurried back with his gloomy tidings to the place of hiding in the swamp; and Coulter, still suffering somewhat from his wound, and