How often have I regretted that the six months I spent in the family of W.W., could not have been six years.  The danger of recapture, however, rendered it utterly imprudent that I should remain longer; and early in the month of March, while the ground was covered with the winter’s snow, I left the bosom of this excellent family, and went forth once more to try my fortune among strangers.

My dear reader, if I could describe to you the emotions I felt when I left the threshold of W.W.’s door, you could not fail to see how deplorable is the condition of the fugitive slave, often for months and years after he has escaped the immediate grasp of the tyrant.  When I left my parents, the trial was great, but I had now to leave a friend who had done more for me than parents could have done as slaves; and hence I felt an endearment to that friend which was heightened by a sense of the important relief he had afforded me in the greatest need, and hours of pleasant and highly profitable intercourse.

About a month previous to leaving the house of W.W., a small circumstance occurred one evening, which I only name to shew the harassing fears and dread in which I lived during most of the time I was there.  He had a brother-in-law living some ten miles distant—­he was a friend to the slave; he often came unexpectedly and spent a few hours—­sometimes a day and a night.  I had not, however, ever known him to come at night.  One night about nine o’clock, after I had gone to bed, (my lodging being just over the room in which W.W. and his wife were sitting,) I heard the door open and a voice ask, “Where is the boy?” The voice sounded to me like the voice of my master; I was sure it must be his.  I sprang and listened for a moment—­it seemed to be silent; I heard nothing, and then it seemed to me there was a confusion.  There was a window at the head of my bed, which I could reach without getting upon the floor:  it was a single sash and opened upon hinges.  I quickly opened this window and waited in a perfect tremour of dread for further development.  There was a door at the foot of the stairs; as I heard that door open, I sprang for the window, and my head was just out, when the gentle voice of my friend W.W. said, “James?"[A] “Here,” said I, “——­ has come, and he would like to have thee put up his horse.”  I drew a breath of relief, but my strength and presence of mind did not return for some hours, I slept none that night; for a moment I could doze away, but the voice would sound in my ears, “Where is that boy?” and it would seem to me it must be the tyrant in quest of his weary prey, and would find myself starting again.

[Footnote A:  If W.W. had ascended the stairs without calling, I should certainly have jumped out of the window.]

From that time the agitation of my mind became so great that I could not feel myself safe.  Every day seemed to increase my fear, till I was unfit for work, study or rest.  My friend endeavoured, but in vain, to get me to stay a week longer.