“‘DEAR FRIEND WARE: Am sending you to-day by express one blackbird, a fine specimen, securely boxed. I was fortunate enough to secure a live one, as I knew you would find the specimen more interesting alive than dead.’” “Father!” cried Rhoda, her eyes wide and horrified. “He’s sent some one in a box! All the way from Louisville! Oh, we must see about it at once!” “The letter was evidently written in great haste,” Dr. Ware continued, “on a dirty scrap of paper and,--yes, it was mailed on the boat.” “Then the box came on the steamboat with the letter!” “Yes, and will be at the express office now. Jim must take the spring wagon and go after it.” Rhoda waited in extreme anxiety for Jim’s return, fearful lest the poor creature should be dead in the box. Even Dr. Ware showed a lessening of his usual calm. They said little to each other during the man’s absence, but together made ready everything that might be necessary if the “blackbird” should be unconscious. They knew of more than one daring escape from slavery by similar methods. And they knew too of the recent release from a southern penitentiary, after an eight years’ term, of a man who had been convicted of attempting to rescue a slave by this same means. The box, short and narrow and looking hardly large enough to contain a human being, was hurried into Jim’s room and the cover quickly removed. Within was the huddled figure of a woman, her knees drawn up to her chin, and all her body held in the close confines as tightly as in a vise. She did not move and when they spoke to her there was no answer. “No, she’s not dead,” said Dr. Ware, his finger on her pulse. They lifted her out and restorative measures soon brought her back to consciousness. But she was ghastly pale and trembling from head to foot. “You poor thing! You’re safe now,” Rhoda soothed, patting her arm, as she began to sob hysterically. “We are your friends and we’ll take care of you.” She was young and comely, perhaps one-fourth colored, with neither complexion nor features showing more than a faint trace of her negro heritage. Presently they were able to give her food and water, and a little later she told them her story. As she talked Rhoda sat beside her, clasping her hand and now and then patting her arm in sympathy and encouragement. Her speech was simple, but good, showing intelligence and some training. “How did Mr. Wilson happen to send you in a box?” asked Dr. Ware. “It was the only way. They had to get rid of me quick. I’d been sold to a trader from New Orleans and he’d brought me and a lot of others to Louisville to take us on the steamboat. I knew he’d paid a big price for me, and from that and the way he talked me over I knew what he’d bought me for. I made up my mind I’d rather die, or do anything. A chance happened to come, on the street in Louisville, as he was taking us to the boat, and in a crowd I give him the slip.