“Now,” she said coaxingly, “you and Jim will let them have your bed a little while, won’t you? Jim can go in the office and lie down on the lounge. They must have some rest, for they ought to go on to-night. It wouldn’t be safe to try to keep them here to-morrow, for Charlotte would be sure to discover the children. Father is not likely to get back before morning--so I’ll drive them on to Gilbertson’s. No, it’s all right”--as Jim made a movement of protest. “Dolly is in the stable--you can hitch her to the two-seated carriage. I’m not the least bit afraid, and it will be much safer for me than you. Charlotte will be home soon. We’d better not do anything more until after she gets in and goes to sleep. But we ought to start in about three hours. Have the carriage ready, Jim, and I’ll be down. Now, you poor thing, you and these babies must lie down and get some sleep.” When they were ready to start, Rhoda put the child, still asleep, into a nest of rugs on the carriage floor. The woman, with the baby hugged to her breast, she took on the front seat. “If we should happen to meet any one,” she said, “they’d take less notice if we were sitting together sociably like this. If you see father when he comes home, Jim, tell him where I’ve gone. And, Lizzie, you’ll be sure to look out for mother as soon as she wakens in the morning, won’t you? If she asks for me tell her I’ve gone on an errand for father.” The street, going on northward, passed a few more houses and then became a country road. The Ware house stood on the top of a long, gentle rise from the river. From the summit the road dipped down into a shallow valley, then mounted another longer and steeper ascent, whence it passed into a region partly wooded and partly filled with farms. They drove on without speaking until they had passed the last of the houses. Rhoda’s thoughts were busy with the woman beside her, wondering what awful pressure of desperation had sent her, with these little ones clinging to her hands, upon the perilous road toward freedom. The fugitive was a good-looking young mulatto, not much older than herself. In her speech and manner Rhoda had already noted the lack of a certain suppressed fire which she had seen in some of the refugees, and especially in the slave whose emancipation papers she had won from Jefferson Delavan. In this one there was instead a patient, pleading resignation which seemed to her eloquent of the wrongs of the helpless race. It appealed to her from the big, mournful eyes of the child when, mutely trustful, he let her take him from his mother’s arm and lay him upon the bed. It was tugging mightily at her heartstrings as they drove down the dim road, her eyes on the faint track that gradually opened out of the darkness. Her heart was all one sweet compassion and brooding tenderness. But she did not speak until they were well past the last house of the town and beyond chance of any wakeful ear.