The sun was hot and Rhoda, on her homeward way, slowed her horse to a walk and sought the shady side of the road. Her thoughts were busy with her mother’s recent pleadings and arguments. A little frown wrinkled the wide space between her level brows. “No,” she said to herself, “no, father’s right about slavery--and mother’s wrong--she doesn’t really know as much about it as he does, although she did live there so long.” Her thoughts lingered over the stories her mother had told her of life on the southern plantations, its gaiety and refinement and gracious hospitality, and into her mind came the picture of the Delavan home as she had seen it on a spring afternoon of her childhood--the long, noble driveway, tree-arched, up which the carriage swept, the massive brick house with its wide verandas, half hidden among trees, the carriage circling the great lawn and drawing up at last at the steps, and Mrs. Delavan coming eagerly forward to receive them, her husband by her side and close behind her the two children, Jeff and Emily. And then, of a sudden, it was herself she saw in the mental picture, with Jeff Delavan at her side, standing on the wide veranda and welcoming their guests. A smile flashed across her face and a tender light shone in her eyes. “Oh, Jeff, Jeff!” she whispered. “I do want to be your wife!” She looked about her, a sweet longing in her heart. Her horse was moving at a walk down a long, sloping hill. Her eyes followed the road up the opposite rise and she saw a man’s figure come across the top and start downward at a run. She wondered idly why any one should be running like that on so hot a day. As they neared each other at the foot of the hill she saw that he was a mulatto, very light in color, but with negro blood nevertheless plainly manifest in skin and eyes. The thought flashed through her mind that perhaps he was a runaway slave and at once her heart warmed with compassion. He was near enough to see the expression of pity that swept across her face and he came toward her with a half-wary, half-questioning look. “What is it? Can I help you?” she asked impulsively. “Can you tell me, Miss,--am I on the right road to Gilbertson’s--is it much farther?” he panted. “About three miles, right on, along this road.” “Three miles!” His face fell and despair leaped into his eyes. He glanced at the trees which thinly clothed the hillside. “Is there any place in there where I can hide? Are there any houses--safe ones?” She bent toward him, looking straight into his eyes. “Are you just running away from slavery? Have you done anything wrong?” He held her gaze unflinchingly as he answered: “I’ve done nothing wrong--nothing but try to get my freedom--but that’s the worst of crimes, south of the Ohio River.”