The other two boys shouted with laughter, and Oscar cried: "She's no Border Ruffian. She's only pro-slavery; and so is Uncle Oscar and lots of others. You ought to be ashamed of yourself to be so--what is it, Charlie? Intolerant, that's what it is." The train was slowly moving from the rude shed that was dignified by the name of railroad depot. Looking back at the river with their heads out of the windows, for the track lay at right angles with the river bank, they could now see the last of the noble stream on which they had taken their journey downwards from "bleeding Kansas" by the Big Muddy. They were nearing home, and their hearts were all the lighter for the trials and troubles through which they had so lately passed. "We don't cross the prairies as of old our fathers crossed the sea, any more, do we, Charlie?" said Oscar, as they caught their last glimpse of the mighty Mississippi. "No," said the elder lad. "We may not be there to see it; but Kansas will be the homestead of the free, for all that. Mind what I say." Typography by J. S. Cushing & Co., Boston. Presswork by Berwick & Smith, Boston.