Our worthy benefactress felt the force of the above, in his reluctance to execute her commands, and the manner in which he faltered when questioned about the purchase.  Returning to her home, weighing the circumstances, she resolves to devise some method of ascertaining the true position of the children.  “Women are not to be outdone,” she says to herself.

We must again beg the reader’s indulgence while accompanying us in a retrograde necessary to the connection of our narrative.  When we left Mr. M’Fadden at the crossing, more than two years ago, he was labouring under the excitement of a wound he greatly feared would close the account of his mortal speculations.

On the morning following that great political gathering, and during the night Harry had so singularly disappeared, the tavern was rife with conjectures.  On the piazza and about the “bar-room” were a few stupefied and half-insensible figures stretched upon benches, or reclining in chairs, their coarse garments rent into tatters, and their besotted faces resembling as many florid masks grouped together to represent some demoniacal scene among the infernals; others were sleeping soundly beside the tables, or on the lawn.  With filthy limbs bared, they snored with painful discord, in superlative contempt of everything around.  Another party, reeking with the fumes of that poisonous drug upon which candidates for a people’s favours had built their high expectations, were leaning carelessly against the rude counter of the “bar-room,” casting wistful glances at the fascinating bottles so securely locked within the lattice-work in the corner.  Oaths of touching horror are mingling with loud calls for slave attendants, whose presence they wait to quench their burning thirst.  Reader! digest the moral.  In this human menagerie-in this sink of besotted degradation-lay the nucleus of a power by which the greatest interests of state are controlled.

A bedusted party of mounted men have returned from a second ineffectual attempt to recover the lost preacher:  the appearance of responsibility haunts mine host.  He assured Mr. Lawrence M’Fadden that his property would be perfectly secure under the lock of the corn-shed.  And now his anxiety exhibits itself in the readiness with which he supplies dogs, horses, guns, and such implements as are necessary to hunt down an unfortunate minister of the gospel.  What makes the whole thing worse, was the report of M’Fadden having had a good sleep and awaking much more comfortable; that there was little chance of the fortunate issue of his death.  In this, mine host saw the liability increasing two-fold.

He stands his important person, (hat off, face red with expectancy, and hands thrust well down into his breeches pocket), on the top step of the stairs leading to the veranda, and hears the unfavourable report with sad discomfiture.  “That’s what comes of making a preacher of a slave!  Well!  I’ve done all I can.  It puts all kinds of deviltry about runnin’ away into their heads,” he ventures to assert, as he turns away, re-enters the “bar-room,” and invites all his friends to drink at his expense.