“Yer a brave girl, now, whoever ye are!” said he.  Eliza recognised a farmer from near her old home.  “Oh, Mr. Symmes! save me! do save me! do hide me!” said Eliza.

“Why, what’s this?” said the man, “why, if ’taint Shelby’s gal!”

“My child!—­this boy—­he’d sold him!  There is his mas’r,” said she, pointing to the Kentucky shore.  “Oh, Mr. Symmes, you’ve got a little boy.”

“So I have,” said the man, as he roughly but kindly helped her up the bank.  “Besides, you’re a right brave gal.  I’d be glad to do something for you.  The best thing I can do is to tell you to go there,” pointing to a large white house, standing by itself, “they’re kind folks.  There’s no kind o’ danger but they’ll help you—­they’re up to all that sort of thing.”

“The Lord bless you!” said Eliza earnestly, and folding her child to her bosom, walked firmly away.

* * * * *

Late that night the fugitives were driven to the house of a man who had once been a considerable shareholder in Kentucky; but, being possessed of a great, honest, just heart, he had witnessed for years with uneasiness the workings of a system equally bad for oppressors and oppressed, and one day bought some land in Ohio, made out free passes for all his people, and settled down to enjoy his conscience.  He conveyed Eliza to a Quaker settlement, where by the help of these good friends she was joined by her husband and soon landed in Canada.  Free!

III.—­The Property Is Carried Off

An unceremonious kick pushed open the door of Uncle Tom’s cabin, and Mr. Haley stood there in very ill humour after his hard riding and ill success.

“Come, ye nigger, ye’r ready.  Servant, ma’am!” said he, taking off his hat as he saw Mrs. Shelby, who detained him a few moments.  Speaking in an earnest manner, she made him promise to let her know to whom he sold Tom; while Tom rose up meekly, and his wife took the baby in her arms, her tears seeming suddenly turned to sparks of fire, to go with him to the wagon:  “Get in,” said Haley, and Tom got in, when Haley made fast a heavy pair of shackles round each ankle; a groan of indignation ran round the crowd of servants gathered to bid Tom farewell.  Mr. Shelby had gone away on business, hoping all would be over before he returned.

“Give my love to Mas’r George,” said Tom earnestly, as he was whirled away, fixing a steady, mournful look to the last on the old place.  Tom insensibly won his way far into the confidence of such a man as Mr. Haley, and on the steamboat was permitted to come and go freely where he pleased.  Among the passengers was a young gentleman of New Orleans whose little daughter often and often walked mournfully round the place where Haley’s gang of men and women were chained.  To Tom she appeared almost divine; he half believed he saw one of the angels stepped out of his New Testament, and they soon got on confidential terms.  As the steamer drew near New Orleans Mr. St. Clare, carelessly putting the tip of his finger under Tom’s chin, said good-humouredly, “Look up, Tom, and see how you like your new master.”