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indignation made irresistible, she burst from him, leaving her cloak, which she had not taken off since entering, in his hands. In the struggle her bonnet fell off, and with it the comb which confined her mass of tresses, fell on the floor. The same effort which released her, east him towards the door, and she gained the window, threw up the sash, and cried for help. As she cast a look out, the most welcome form presented itself that could have prevented her leap from the window; and, clasping her hands, she exclaimed, "Henry !"

To force the door was not a business requiring much time with the athletic and excited youth, who heard the cry of distress from one whose voice at all times reached his heart with the lightning's rapidity, who saw that her face, pale with terror, after losing the flush which indignation and exercise had caused that countenance, wild and surrounded by disheveled locks, on which he delighted to trace the mild emotions of benevolence and love. The lock gave way before him-he rushed in-Emma was in his arms. The wretch, who had caused this alarm, finding himself baffled and exposed to detection, retreated by the open window, and was not even seen by young Johnson.

Henry had called, as usual, to visit his betrothed, after leaving the counting-house in which his days were passed: he received the paper left by Emma, and, although not alarmed, as evening approached, he determined to follow the direction, expecting to meet her. Having passed the populous and well-built part of the street, he began to fear that something was wrong, and hastened forward, anxiously looking for No. 356. He came as opportunely as hero of romance, or protecting deity in an epic, could possibly have done, and received explanations as extraordinary as the appearance of Emma was alarming.

Her cloak, bonnet, and comb, strewed the floor; and near them lay a man's hat.

Her hair covering her neck, shoulders, and almost hiding her face, streamed in wild disorder over her deliverer's arms as he pressed her to his bosom. It was not until he had placed her on the only chair in the room, that he saw the man's hat, and gained, by a hurried statement, some confused knowledge of the insult that had been offered.

"His name may be written in his hat," he exclaimed; but, on examining it by the faint fire-light, only the letter W. was found.

“I am glad of it, Henry! 'Tis better we should not know.”

"But I will know! Where is the woman? I will discover the scoundrel by means of his vile agent."

Emma would have persuaded Henry to depart instantly, but he was irritated, and insisted on seeing the woman who had decoyed her to the place. She came down stairs reluctantly at his call; but nothing could be elicited from her. She confessed her participation in the plot, having been persuaded by the gentleman that he meant no harm. She declared, and probably with great truth, that she did not know his name. She could not read, and did not know the contents of the letter, only as her employer had informed her. When questioned respecting her children, she said she had but one; an infant; and she had been directed to leave that with a neighbour. Her husband, Patrick Murphy, had left her and gone to Boston.

"Then Jenkins is not your name?”

"No, sure, the truth is, my name's Molly Murphy ever since I was married. The gentleman called me Jenkins only for a joke, sure."

As no trace of this mysterious persecutor was discovered, Henry yielded to Emma's entreaties; who, having reduced her disordered dress to its usual neat and simple appearance, departed in safety with her protector. On the way home she promised him never to go on an errand of charity among strangers without a companion.

She promised to be guided by him. She knew that he was entitled to her confidence, and looked upon herself as his bride elect. In her communion with this, the chosen of her affections, she might have said with the poet

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She henceforward looked upon Henry Johnson as the partner who should add his strength to the support which her own intelligence, virtues, and purity imparted.

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CHAPTER X.

A death, and a snow storm.

"If men were to act and think just as their ancestors have acted and thought before them, human nature would be merely idolatry and slavery." English translation of De Lamartine.

"I hope it will not be conceived, that it is my wish to hold the unhappy people, who are the subject of this letter, in slavery. I can only say, that there is not a man living, who wishes more sincerely than I do, to see a plan adopted for the abolition of it; but there is only one proper and effectual inode by which it can be accomplished; and that is, by legislative authority; and this, as far as my suffrage will go, shall never be wanting." ¡Washington.

"You have among you many a purchased slave,
Which, like your asses, and your dogs, and mules,
You use in abject and in slavish parts,
Because you bought them."-Shakspeare.

"I cannot see how Venetians or Englishmen, while they practise the purchase and sale of slaves, can much enforce or demand the law of ' Doing to others as we would have that they should do to us.' "—Johnson.

"To set the slaves afloat at once, would, I really believe, be productive of much inconvenience and mischief; but by degrees it certainly might, and assuredly ought to be affected; and that, too, by legislative authority." Washington.

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"I was born as free as they,

And what I think, that will I say."-Southey.

"After life's fitful fever they sleep well.
Nor steel, nor poison,

Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing

Can touch them further."-Shakspeare.

"I never mean, unless some particular circumstances should compel me to it, to possess another slave by purchase, it being among my first wishes to see some plan adopted, by which slavery in this country may be abolished by law."-Washington.

"Just Death! kind umpire of man's miseries."

"Our little life is rounded with a sleep."

"But in that sleep of death what dreams may chance
To come, must give us pause."-Shakspeare.

SOME Weeks had flown on time's wings, when another incident occurred, even more nearly affecting the fortunes of Emma Portland than that last recorded.

My readers must excuse me if I again introduce them to the dingy company of John Kent and his wife: it is necessary that we follow our heroine, even though our motives for so doing should not be as pure as hers were.

The snows of winter had for some time covered the wide fields of the agriculturist, cherishing the root and the seed of succeeding harvests. The streets of our city were ringing with bells, as the gay and the beautiful enjoyed the rapid motion of the sleigh, while silks, velvets, and feathers, of every colour, glittered and danced in the sunbeams; or, as the thoughtless and dissipated flew shouting to the nightly rendezvous of intemperance.

Again the north-east wind whirled the dark clouds over us, and the snow had fallen all day without intermission, when honest old Kent appeared at Mrs. Epsom's, soliciting Emma Portland to give the consolation of her beloved presence to his wife, whose sufferings appeared to be drawing to a close. He proposed sending a hackney-coach for her, in the evening; but this she positively refused. She knew that his circumstances did not warrant the expense. She promised to come as soon as her duties at home permitted.

When the evening arrived, she was longer detained by offices of kindness and assistance, performed for her aunt and cousin, than she had anticipated; but after they had gone, with Mr. Spiffard, to their duties at the theatre, she prepared to encounter the storm. Taking Rachel, the black servant, with her to Kent's door, she again entered the abode of sickness, after charging the faithful girl to return quickly home, and be vigilant in her sphere of usefulness.

Kent having been excused from his duties at the theatre, in consequence of his wife's extreme illness, was at home; and the reader may imagine the same picture, once before presented to him; the same room, the same table, lamp, book, and figures; but, at the time we draw the curtain, the book was closed; the invalid had recovered temporary strength, appearing unusually animated, and the parties were engaged earnestly in conversation. It was that strength and animation which not unfrequently precedes death.

The aged man and dying woman are the same we have already introduced to the reader. The same honest old Kent, as faithful a servant to his employers, as his namesake was to the improvident and misjudging Lear.

His wife, though not a white, was an interesting figure, even in the eyes of the most fastidious. Pale and emaciated,

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but with an expression of resignation. Always neat in her personal appearance, beyond that cleanliness which might have been expected from her condition, there was in everything about her and her humble dwelling, the evidences of economy and propriety.

The old property-man was occupied, in compliance with Emma's request, with that, which is always pleasant to age, recounting the eventful circumstances of his early life.

"I was born, as I have told you, Miss Emmy, in this city, when it was a poor little place compared to what it is now; when the park, now level as a floor, and filled with trees, was called the fields; no houses, but some mean wooden ones, around it; and neither tree nor green thing to be seen. The people were almost as much Dutch as English. My master took me with him to Canada, when the rebels, as they called them then, were mobbing the tories-for he was an Englishman and a loyalist."

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He was a good master to you-was he not?"

Why do you think so, Miss?"

"Because you had a good education for-for-”

"A slave, Miss. You did not like to speak the word. Yes, I was a slave. Yes, Miss, he was a good master; but he was a master."

He had you taught a trade, too."

"That makes the slave a more valuable property. He can earn more wages for his master. Having a trade, he will bring a higher price if set up at auction, to be knocked down to the highest bidder, like a horse or a dog."

"But you were not so sold?"

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"No, Miss; but I saw others so bought and sold; and I knew that it might be my case. I knew that I was a something that must go one way when I wished to go another. No matter! It's past! No matter!"

He paused, as if looking back to long gone days. Emma said soothingly," Such is the fate of all; and probably it is best for us that it is so. My dear mother taught me, very early in life, that it was better her will should govern me than my own. I was taught this so very early in my infancy, that I cannot remember the arguments she used; but I was convinced. Probably my conviction was the result of her universally tender behaviour-her protecting care and love-her strict adherence to truth. She told me that her commands were for my good; and I believed her."

"Ah, there it is, Miss. There's the difference. The slave

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