He appeared greatly surprised, and said, "You are the first person who ever walked over that bridge. Will you come to my house and rest awhile? You must be very weary, and my wife will be glad to see you. She is rather lonely here, and is pleased to see any one. Will you come? 'Tis only a short distance, just down under the bridge." Those last words decided me. I thanked him, but firmly refused to go one step out of my way. I thought that he wished to deceive me, perhaps take me to some out-of-the-way place, and give me up to my pursuers. At all events, it was wise not to trust him, for I was sure there was no house near the bridge, certainly not under it. I have since learned that such is the fact. As I turned to leave him, he again urged me to stop, and said, "The cars will soon be along, and they will run over you. How do you expect to get out of their way?" I told him I would risk it, and left him. I passed on in safety, and soon came to the depot, where I took the evening train for Albany. At eight the same evening I left the cars, and walked on towards Troy, which I think was four miles distant. Here I met a lad, of whom I inquired the way to Albany. "You cannot get there to-night," said he, "and I advise you not to try." When he saw that I was determined to go on, he said I would pass a tavern called the half-way house, and if I was tired I could stop there. It was about eleven o'clock when I passed this house, There were several persons on the piazza, laughing, talking, and singing, who called me as I passed, shouted after me, and bade me stop. Exceedingly frightened, I ran with all possible speed, but they continued to call after me till I was out of hearing. Seeing a light at a house near by, I ventured to rap on the door. It was opened by a woman, who asked me to walk in. I inquired the distance to Albany. She informed me, but said, "You can't go there to-night." I told her I must, "Well," said she, "if you will go, the watch will take care of you when you get there." She then asked, "Were those men calling after you?" I told her I supposed they were, when she replied, with a peculiar smile, "I guess you can't be a very nice kind of girl, or you wouldn't be on the street this time of night." My feelings were so deeply wounded I could hardly restrain my tears at this cruel insinuation; but pride came to my aid, and, choking down the rising emotion, I replied as carelessly as possible, "I must do as I can, and not as I would."