“Not without my child?” she inquires quickly.  She stoops down and kisses it.  “My daughter,—­my sweet child!” she mutters.

“Till to-morrow.  You must leave her for to-night.”

“If I must!” Again she kisses the child, adding, as she smoothed her hand over Annette, and parted her hair, “Mother will return soon.”  There was something so touching in the word mother, spoken while leaning over a sleeping babe.  Clotilda reaches the door, having kept her eyes upon the child as she left her behind.  A tremor comes over her,—­she reluctantly passes the threshold of the narrow arch; but she breathes the fresh air of heaven,—­feels as if her life had been renewed.  A mother’s thoughts, a mother’s anxieties, a mother’s love, veil her countenance.  She turns to take a last look as the cold door closes upon the dearest object of her life.  How it grates upon its hinges! her hopes seem for ever extinguished.

The law is thus far satisfied-the legal gentlemen are satisfied, the warden is not the least generous; and Mr. Cur feels that, while the job was a very nice one, he has not transcended one jot of his importance.  Such is highly gratifying to all parties.  Clotilda is hurried into a carriage, driven at a rapid rate, and soon arrives at the mansion.  Here she is ushered into a chamber, arrayed in a new dress, and conducted into the presence of Franconia.  The meeting may be more easily imagined than described.  Their congratulations were warm, affectionate, touching.  Clotilda kisses Franconia’s hand again and again; Franconia, in turn, lays her hand upon Clotilda’s shoulder, and, with a look of commiseration, sets her eyes intently upon her, as if she detects in her countenance those features she cannot disown.  She requests to be left alone with Clotilda for a short time.  Her friends withdraw.  She discloses the difficulties into which the family have suddenly fallen, the plan of escape she has arranged, the hopes she entertains of her regaining her freedom.  “Public opinion and the state of our difficulties prompted this course,—­I prefer it to any other:  follow my directions,—­Maxwell has everything prepared, and to-night will carry you off upon the broad blue ocean of liberty.  Enjoy that liberty, Clotilda,—­be a woman,—­follow the path God has strewn for your happiness; above all, let freedom be rewarded with your virtue, your example,” says Franconia, as she again places her arm round Clotilda’s neck.

“And leave my child, Franconia?” the other inquires, looking up imploringly in Franconia’s face.

“To me,” is the quick response.  “I will be her guardian, her mother.  Get you beyond the grasp of slavery-get beyond its contaminating breath, and I will be Annette’s mother.  When you are safely there, when you can breathe the free air of liberty, write me, and she shall meet you.  Leave her to me; think of her only in my care, and in my trust she will be happy.  Meet Maxwell-he is your friend-at the centre corridor; he will be there as soon as the ceremony commences; he will have a pass from me; he will be your guide!” She overcomes Clotilda’s doubts, reasons away her pleadings for her child, gives her a letter and small miniature (they are to be kept until she reaches her destination of freedom), and commences preparing for the ceremony.