on for some time in silence, thinking over this story and trying
to decide what I would better do. I did not know until months later that
signs of unrest had been observed among the slaves all over the colony,
and that the governor had considered the situation so serious that he had
sent out many warnings concerning the danger. It was as well, perhaps,
that I did not know this then, for I might not have thought my own
portion of the problem so easy of solution. At the time, I had no
thought but that the outbreak was the result of old Polete's prophecies,
and was confined alone to Riverview.

Sam was cantering along behind me, his face still livid with terror, and
as I caught sight of it again, I wondered what impulse it was had moved
him to confide in me, with such fancied peril to himself.

"I would n' tole nobody else," he said, in answer to my question, "but
you tole a lie fo' me oncet, an' saved me a lickin'."

"Told a lie for you, Sam?" I questioned in astonishment. "When was that?"

"Don' yo' 'membah boat d' whip, Mas' Tom, what I stole?" he asked.

I looked at him for a moment before that incident of my boyhood came
back to me.

"Why, yes, I remember it now," I said. "But that was years ago, Sam, and
I had forgotten it. Besides, I didn't tell a lie for you. I only told old
Gump that I wished to give you the whip."

"Well," said Sam, looking at me doubtfully, "yo' saved me a lickin'
anyhow, an' I did n' f 'git it," and he dropped back again.

Well, to be sure, an act of thoughtfulness or mercy never hurts a man, a
fact which I have since learned for myself a hundred times, and wish all
men realized.

We were soon at Riverview, and I ordered Sam to ride out to the field
where the men were working, and tell the overseer, Long, that I wished to
see him. Sam departed on the errand, visibly uneasy, and I wandered from
my room, where I had taken my pack, along the hall and into my aunt's
business room while I waited his return. I stood again for a moment at
the spot on the staircase where I had kissed Dorothy that morning,--it
seemed ages ago,--and as I looked up, I fancied I could still see her
sweet face gazing down at me. But it was only fancy, and, with a sigh, I
turned away and went down through the hall.

There were reminders of her at every turn,--there was the place where she
had sat sewing in the evenings; over the fireplace hung a little picture
she had painted, rude enough, no doubt, but beautiful