tions to carry it out. When I was almost ready to turn my face
northward, Mrs. Garland told me that she would require the names of six
gentlemen who would vouch for my return, and become responsible for the
amount at which I was valued. I had many friends in St. Louis, and as I
believed that they had confidence in me, I felt that I could readily
obtain the names desired. I started out, stated my case, and obtained
five signatures to the paper, and my heart throbbed with pleasure, for I
did not believe that the sixth would refuse me. I called, he listened
patiently, then remarked:

"Yes, yes, Lizzie; the scheme is a fair one, and you shall have my name.
But I shall bid you good-by when you start."

"Good-by for a short time," I ventured to add.

"No, good-by for all time," and he looked at me as if he would read my
very soul with his eyes.

I was startled. "What do you mean, Mr. Farrow? Surely you do not think
that I do not mean to come back?"

"No."

"No, what then?"

"Simply this: you _mean_ to come back, that is, you _mean_ so _now_, but
you never will. When you reach New York the abolitionists will tell you
what savages we are, and they will prevail on you to stay there; and we
shall never see you again."

"But I assure you, Mr. Farrow, you are mistaken. I not only _mean_ to
come back, but _will_ come back, and pay every cent of the twelve
hundred dollars for myself and child."

I was beginning to feel sick at heart, for I could not accept the
signature of this man when he had no faith in my pledges. No; slavery,
eternal slavery rather than be regarded with distrust by those whose
respect I esteemed.

"But--I am not mistaken," he persisted. "Time will show. When you start
for the North I shall bid you good-by."

The heart grew heavy. Every ray of sunshine was eclipsed. With humbled
pride, weary step, tearful face, and a dull, aching pain, I left the
house. I walked along the street mechanically. The cloud had no silver
lining now. The rosebuds of hope had withered and died without lifting
up their heads to receive the dew kiss of morning. There was no morning
for me--all was night, dark night.

I reached my own home, and weeping threw myself upon the bed. My trunk
was packed, my luncheon was prepared by mother, the cars were ready to
bear me where I would not hear the clank of chains, where I would
breathe the free, invigorating breezes of the glorious North. I had
dreamed such a happy dream, in imagi