She paced the floor of her little room,—looked her situation unflinchingly in the face,—and resolved, with God’s help, to gird herself for the strife. Her unknown benefactor, whom her imagination had so exalted, ah! how poor a thing, hollow and corrupt, he had proved! Could she ever forgive the man who had dared claim her as his slave? And yet might she not misjudge him? Might he not be plotting some generous surprise? She recalled a single expression of his face, and felt satisfied she did him no injustice. How hateful now seemed all those accomplishments she had acquired! They were but the gilding of an abhorred chain. In the midst of her whirling thoughts, her mocking-bird, which had been pecking at some crumbs in his cage, burst into such a wild _jubilate_ of song, that Clara’s attention was withdrawn for a moment even from her own great grief. Opening the door of the cage, she said: “Come, Dainty, you too shall be free. The window is open. Go find a pleasant home among the trees and on the plantations.” The bird flew about her head, and alighted on her forefinger, as it had been accustomed. Clara pressed the down of its neck to her cheek, and then, taking the little songster to the window, threw it off her finger. Dainty flew back into the room, and, alighting on Clara’s head, pecked at her hair. “Naughty Dainty! Good by, my pet! We must part. Freedom is best for both you and me.” And, putting her head out of the window, Clara brushed Dainty off into the airy void, and closed the glass against the bird’s return. She now summoned Esha, and said: “Esha, we’ve often wondered as to my true place in the world. The mystery is solved to-day. Mrs. Gentry informs me I’m a slave.” “What! Wha-a-a-t! You? You, too, a slabe? My little darlin’ a slabe? O, de good Lord in hebbn won’t ’low dat!” “We’ve but a moment for talk, Esha. Help me to act. My owner (owner!) may be here any minute.” “Who am dat owner?” “Mr. Carberry Ratcliff.” “No,—no,—no! Not dat man! Not him! De Lord help de dare chile if dat born debble wunst git hole ob her!” “What do you know of him?” “He war de cruel massa ob dat slabe gal whom you hab de hair ob in yer bosom.” “I’m glad of it!” cried Clara, throwing her clenched hand in the air, and looking up as if to have the heavens hear her. “O, darlin’ chile, what am dar ole Esha kn do for her?” Clara stopped short, and, pressing both hands on her forehead, stood as if calling her best thoughts to a council of war, and then said, “Can you get me a small valise, Esha?” “Hab a carpet-bag I kn gib her. You jes wait one minute.” And Esha returned with the desired article. “Now help me pack it with the things I shall most need. Mrs. Gentry expects me soon to go a-shopping with her. When she calls for me, I shall be missing. I’ve not yet made up my mind where to go. I shall think on that as I walk along. What’s the matter, Esha? What do you stare at?” “Look dar! What yer see dar, darlin’?”