“Oh, what is the use of so much talk about it?  Why don’t you hustle the old thing out,” remarked a bystander, the respectability of whose appearance contrasted broadly with his manners; “she is some crack-brained abolitionist.  Making so much fuss about a little nigger!  Let her go into the nigger car—­she’ll be more at home there.”

Mrs. Bird, seeing the uselessness of contention, accepted the proffered escort of the gentleman before mentioned, and was followed out of the cars by the conductor and his blackguard assistants, all of them highly elated by the victory they had won over a defenceless old woman and a feeble little boy.

Mrs. Bird shrunk back, as they opened the door of the car that had been set apart for coloured persons, and such objectionable whites as were not admitted to the first-class cars.  “Oh, what a wretched place!” she exclaimed, as she surveyed the rough pine timbers and dirty floor; “I would not force a dog to ride in such a filthy place.”

“Oh, don’t stay here, ma’am; never mind me—­I shall get on by myself well enough, I dare say,” said Charlie; “it is too nasty a place for you to stay in.”

“No, my child,” she replied; “I’ll remain with you.  I could not think of permitting you to be alone in your present state of health.  I declare,” she continued, “it’s enough to make any one an abolitionist, or anything else of the kind, to see how inoffensive coloured people are treated!”

That evening they went on board the steamer that was to convey them to Warmouth, where they arrived very early the following morning.

Charlie was charmed with the appearance of the pretty little town, as they rode through it in Mrs. Bird’s carriage, which awaited them at the landing.  At the door of her residence they were met by two cherry-faced maids, who seemed highly delighted at the arrival of their mistress.

“Now, Charlie,” said Mrs. Bird, as she sat down in her large arm-chair, and looked round her snug little parlour with an air of great satisfaction—­“now we are at home, and you must try and make yourself as happy as possible.  Betsey,” said she, turning to one of the women, “here is a nice little fellow, whom I have brought with me to remain during the summer, of whom I want you to take the best care; for,” continued she, looking at him compassionately, “the poor child has had the misfortune to break his arm recently, and he has not been strong since.  The physician thought the country would be the best place for him, and so I’ve brought him here to stay with us.  Tell Reuben to carry his trunk into the little maple chamber, and by-and-by, after I have rested, I will take a walk over the place with him.”

“Here are two letters for you,” said Betsey, taking them from the mantelpiece, and handing them to her mistress.