“You will think me ostentatious,” faltered Emily, tears wetting her long lashes; “but, Harrington, it is not so. The poor man’s distress touched me so keenly, that I could not forbear saying what I did.” “No, Emily,” warmly returned Harrington, “you mistake. I do not think your offer was made in ostentation. Don’t think me insensible to the splendid generosity that would give so large a sum to bring joy to the home of a poor, despised negro, and he a stranger to you. It is not a common heart that could enter into the depths of his sorrow, and so promptly seek to relieve it. But, listen, Emily. Muriel and I have a secret to tell you.” He released her hands to take a wallet from his breast-pocket, from which he drew a letter. “God knows,” he resumed sadly, “it is at best a noble folly to give away wealth, as you would do, to ransom one man from that dismal pit of slavery when nearly four millions with as strong a claim on our hearts must be left behind. And yet these individual cases come to us so like special claims, that we cannot deny them. See now—in this noble folly there was another heart before you. Yes, Emily, Muriel, too, was touched to the ransom of Roux’s brother.” “Muriel!” exclaimed Emily. “We said nothing to Roux,” continued Harrington, “for the result was doubtful. And we had to proceed with caution lest this Lafitte should seek to capture him. I wrote a letter, which I had mailed from Philadelphia. Here is the fiend’s answer, received two months ago. Don’t read it unless you have strong nerves.” Emily eagerly snatched the letter from Harrington, and looked at the envelope. It was postmarked from Marksville, Louisiana, and directed to John Harrington, Esquire, care of Joseph House, Esquire, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. “Jo House is a young literary friend of mine—an editor,” observed Harrington. “I explained the matter to him, telling the reason for secrecy, and got him to mail the letter for me, and transmit the answer. And by the way,” he continued, “to give you an idea of the risk of dealing with such a man as Lafitte, let me tell you that since this letter was received, Lafitte has been up to Philadelphia, and called on Jo for my address, desiring, he said, to enter into negotiation with me for the sale of Antony.” “Good Heavens!” exclaimed Emily, with sudden alarm, “I hope your friend did not tell him where you were.” Harrington laughed. “Not a bit of it,” he replied. “What do you think Jo told him? He told him with the utmost gravity that I resided in London. And when Lafitte looked incredulous, the jolly young Bohemian produced a London Directory he happened to have, and showed him my name among the Harringtons, offering to copy the address for him.” Emily laughed delightedly. “That was a brilliant fib, I declare,” said she. “What did Lafitte say?”