“Jim, I will let you go. I don’t know whether I am doing right or wrong, but I cannot bear the thought of your wretched condition, and the awful fate that too surely awaits you, if you are imprisoned to-night. Listen, Jim. I have a strong fishing-boat, moored at the beach, at the foot of the promontory; two oars and some fishing tackle are in it—in the little fishing-shed under the brow of the rock there is a sail. When I cut these cords, fly, take the boat, the oars, and the sail, put out into the bay, keep near the coast, and _up_ the bay, until you reach the Susquehanna; go a few miles up that, and then land. You will be in Pennsylvania, and you will be safe. And oh, listen! Go to work—steal no more, for every future crime you commit will rest upon my head for permitting you to escape.” Sophie was now trembling at the responsibility she was assuming. “Look you, Jim, resolve upon amendment, pray God to help, and _I_,” said she sternly, “_I_ shall pray too. I shall pray God to help you to reform, and I shall pray God to grant you a safe termination to your highly dangerous voyage, if you are _going_ to reform; if not, if he sees your heart is hardened, I shall pray him in that case to let you drown or fall into the hands of your pursuers, that my mercy to you may not turn out cruelty to others.” She went into the kitchen, got a pone of cornbread and a knife, returned and cut his cords. He sprang upon his feet, and scarcely waiting to receive the pone she gave him, fled from the house. Sophie sat down trembling in her seat. She had been afraid of him even while talking to him and setting him at liberty; now she drew a long breath, with an inexpressible feeling of relief. But soon came other thoughts; her doubtful act of mercy had been a matter of feeling entirely, and by no means of judgment, and she did not now feel altogether assured of its prosperity; besides she feared that she had made herself in some way amenable to the laws, by assisting a felon to escape. Sophie was really growing sick at heart; she resolved to avoid an explanation and seek her rest. She went to her chamber, undressed and retired to bed, where, with little Hagar clasped in her arms, she tried to forget in the presence of innocence the scene of horror she had lately witnessed. Presently she heard the officers enter the room below; exclamations of surprise and regret (oaths were spared in the pastor’s presence), and then she heard old Cumbo hobbling up the stairs. She entered her room, exclaiming in tones of extreme indignation— “Ha! hi! _What_ do you think, Miss Soph, do you think that gallows-faced vilyun ain’t broke loose and _gone_!” Sophie raised herself on her elbow and looked at the old woman without speaking. “Yes, indeed! broke loose and _gone_! There’s no tellin’ what _he wouldn’t_ do, the ungrateful wretch, to break loose and go! after Massa Widders con’cendin’ tu him too! Oh! he’d ’ny his Saviour—_he’d_ do anything.”