follow it.

Emily was conducted to the ladies' cabin by Jaspar, who, by a dogged
adherence to her side, seemed determined to prevent any further
conversation between her and Henry. But the black chambermaid, with an
official dignity which is oftentimes necessary in her position, politely
requested him to retire. Jaspar left, satisfied she would be safe from
intrusion for the present.

Jaspar's disposition to prevent further conversation between Emily and
Henry was not unperceived by the latter. He was satisfied that her
uncle's close attendance at her side--so foreign to his former
manner--was not without its purpose. Love, which he had in vain
attempted to stifle, pressed more vigorously at his heart. In her
recognition of him he had read that the sentiment in her heart was not
abated by his absence. Her melancholy aspect had awakened a new interest
in him. Disappointed in obtaining the interview he desired, he sought
the hurricane deck to think of her, and to cherish the warm feeling in
his heart. But what was his surprise, on reaching it, to find Emily
there, and alone!

After the departure of Jaspar she had retired to the gallery which
surrounds the cabin, to enjoy the freshness of the evening air. The
gallery was somewhat crowded, and, with a lady and gentleman, she had
ascended to the hurricane deck. Her companions, more gay and happy than
she, soon left her to the gloom and comparative silence which usually
reigns on the upper deck. There were no other passengers there, and,
fearing not the darkness or the loneliness, she was there venting the
sadness which pervaded her heart. She was about to descend, when she
recognized Henry.

Emily related to him the circumstances of her father's death, and of the
reading of the will.

"Impossible!" exclaimed Henry, in astonishment.

"It is strange; but I cannot see any reason to disbelieve it, except
that my father's character assures me it is not so."

"Which would be a very good reason for disbelieving it. And you are now
on your way to Cincinnati?"

"I am; and it is the most melancholy journey I ever attempted. But I
ought to be thankful for all that comes,--if I am a slave, for the
freedom that awaits me."

"Good Heavens! Emily, do not talk so! You freeze the blood in my veins!"

"Nay, I feel somewhat reconciled to the terrible reality now, for it
little matters what I really am, since the will--true or false--condemns
me to the odium of having been a slave.