After a pause, “What do you advise?” said Clara. “Well, Darling, stay with me a week or two, then go quietly back to Mrs. Gentry’s, and play the penitent.” “Hadn’t I better go at once?” asked Clara, simulating meekness. “O no, Darling! I can’t possibly permit that. Now I’ve got you, I shall hold on till I’ve done with you. Then we’ll see if we can’t persuade Mr. Ratcliff to free you. Who’d have thought of this little Darling being a slave!” “But hadn’t I better write to Mrs. Gentry and tell her where I am?” “No, no. She’ll only be forcing you back. You shall do nothing but stay here till I tell you you may go. You shall play the lady for one week, at least. There’s a Mr. Vance in the house, to whom I’ve spoken of your singing. He’s wild to hear you. I’ve promised him he shall. I wouldn’t disappoint him on any account.” Clara saw that, could she but command courage to fall in with Laura’s selfish plans, it might, after all, be safer to come thus into the very focus of the city’s life, than to seek some corner, penetrable to police-officers and slave-hunters. “How will you manage?” asked Clara. “What more simple?” replied Laura. “I’ll take you right into my sleeping-room; you shall be my schoolmate, Miss Brown, come to pass a few days with me before going to St. Louis. Papa will never think of questioning my story.” “But I’ve no dresses with me.” “No matter. I’ve a plenty I’ve outgrown. They’ll fit you beautifully. Come here into my sleeping-room. It adjoins, you see. There! We’re about of a height, though I’m a little stouter.” “It will not be safe for me to appear at the public table.” “Well, you shall be an invalid, and I’ll send your meals from the table when I send mother’s. Miss Brown from St. Louis! Let me see. What shall be your first name?” “Let it be Perdita.” “Perdita? The lost one! Good. How quick you are! Perdita Brown! It does not sound badly. Mr. Onslow,—Miss Brown,—Miss Perdita Brown from St. Louis! Then you’ll courtesy, and look so demure! Won’t it be fun?” Between grief and anger, Clara found disguise a terrible effort. So! Her fate so dark, so tragic, was to be Laura’s pastime, not the subject of her grave and tender consideration! Already had some of the traits, congenital with slavery, begun to develop themselves in Clara. Strategy now seemed to her as justifiable under the circumstances as it would be in escaping from a murderer, a lunatic, or a wild beast. Was not every pro-slavery man or woman her deadly foe,—to be cheated, circumvented, robbed, nay, if need be, slain, in defence of her own inalienable right of liberty? The thought that Laura was such a foe made Clara look on her with precisely the same feelings that the exposed sentinel might have toward the lurking picket-shooter. An expression so strange flitted over Clara’s face, that Laura asked: “What’s the matter? Don’t you feel well?”