Bacchus followed his master, and found that he was wending his steps to the place where the arrested runaways were confined.  This was very agreeable to him, for his heart was quite softened towards the poor prisoners, and he had an idea that his master’s very presence might carry a blessing with it.  “Bacchus,” said Mr. Weston, as they were going in, “you need not point out the servants to me.  I will observe for myself, and I do not wish to be conspicuous.”

There were a great many lounging about, and looking round there.  Some were considering the scene as merely curious; some were blaming the slaves; some their masters, some the Abolitionists.  There was confusion and constant going in and out.  But though the countenances of the runaways expressed different emotions, it was evident that one feeling had settled in each breast, and that was, there was no hope that any thing would occur to relieve them from their undesirable position.

Mr. Weston easily recognized Simon, from Bacchus’s description.  He had a boyish expression of disappointment and irritation on his countenance, and had evidently been recently weeping.  There were several men, one or two of them with bad faces, and one, a light mulatto, had a fine open countenance, and appeared to be making an effort not to show his excessive disappointment.  In the corner sat the woman, on a low bench—­her head was bent forward on her lap, and she was swaying her body slightly, keeping motion with her foot.

“What is the woman’s name, Bacchus?” asked Mr. Weston in a low tone.

“I axed her dis mornin, sir.  Its Sarah—­Sarah Mills.”

Mr. Weston walked up nearer to her, and was regarding her, when she suddenly looked up into his face.  Finding herself observed, she made an effort to look unconcerned, but it did not succeed, for she burst into tears.

“I’m sorry to see you here, Sarah,” said Mr. Weston, “you look too respectable to be in such a situation.”  Sarah smoothed down her apron, but did not reply.  “What induced you to run away?  You need not be afraid to answer me truthfully.  I will not do you any harm.”

“My blessed grief!” said Bacchus.  “No, master couldn’t do no harm to a flea.”

“Hush, Bacchus,” said Mr. Weston.

There was something in Mr. Weston’s appearance that could not be mistaken.  The woman gave him a look of perfect confidence, and said—­

“I thought I could better myself, sir.”

“In what respect?  Had you an unkind master?” said Mr. Weston.

“No,” said the woman, “but my husband I was afear’d might be sold, and I thought I could make so much money at the North, that I could soon help him to buy himself.  He’s a barber, sir, lives on the Avenue, and his master, when he was young, had him taught the barber’s trade.  Well, his master told him some time ago that he might live to himself, and pay him so much a month out o’ what he made, but seemed as if he couldn’t get