ave a chance to
meddle with gentlemen's property again."

"They're both slaves," replied Mr. Bell. "The telegram I received
informed me that one would pass himself for a white man. But, captain,
you must take 'em directly to Castle Island. One of the officers there
will lock 'em up, if you tell them I sent you. And you can't be off
too quick; for as likely as not the Abolitionists will get wind of it,
and be raising a row before morning. There's no safety for property
now-a-days."

Having given these orders, the wealthy merchant bade the captain good
evening, and his carriage rolled away.

The unhappy fugitives were immediately taken from the hold of the
vessel, pinioned fast, and hustled on board a boat, which urged its
swift way through the waters to Castle Island, where they were safely
locked up till further orders.

"O George, they'll send us back," said the younger one. "I wish we war
dead."

George answered, with a deep groan: "O how I have watched the North
Star! thinking always it pointed to a land of freedom. O my God, is
there _no_ place of refuge for the slave?"

"_You_ are so white, you could have got off, if you hadn't brought
_me_ with you," sobbed the other.

"And what good would freedom do me without you, Henny?" responded the
young man, drawing his companion closer to his breast. "Cheer up,
honey! I'll try again; and perhaps we'll make out better next time."

He tried to talk hopefully; but when yellow Henny, in her boy's dress,
cried herself to sleep on his shoulder, his tears dropped slowly on
her head, while he sat there gazing at the glittering stars, with a
feeling of utter discouragement and desolation.

That same evening, the merchant who was sending them back to bondage,
without the slightest inquiry into their case, was smoking his
amber-lipped meerschaum, in an embroidered dressing-gown, on a
luxurious lounge; his daughter, Mrs. Fitzgerald, in azure satin
and pearls, was meandering through the mazes of the dance; and his
exquisitely dressed grandson, Gerald, was paying nearly equal homage
to Mrs. King's lambent eyes and the sparkle of her diamonds.

When young Fitzgerald descended to a late breakfast, the morning after
the great party, his grandfather was lolling back in his arm-chair,
his feet ensconced in embroidered slippers, and resting on the
register, while he read the Boston Courier.

"Good morning, Gerald," said he, "if it be not past that time of day.
If you are suffic