They have eaten their measure
of corn, and are sleeping; they sleep while chivalry revels! Harry
has drawn his hat partly over his face, and made a pillow of the
little bundle he carried under his arm.
Passing from one to the other, the woman approaches him, as if to
see if she can recognise any familiar feature. She stoops over him,
passes the light along his body, from head to foot, and from foot to
head. "Can it be our Harry?" she mutters. "It can't be; master
wouldn't sell him." Her eyes glare with anxiety as they wander up
and down his sleeping figure.
"Harry,--Harry,--Harry! which is Harry?" she demands.
Scarcely has she lisped the words, when the sleeper starts to his
feet, and sets his eyes on the woman with a stare of wonderment. His
mind wanders-bewildered; is he back on the old plantation? That
cannot be; they would not thus provide for him there. "Back at the
old home! Oh, how glad I am: yes, my home is there, with good old
master. My poor old woman; I've nothing for her, nothing," he says,
extending his hand to the woman, and again, as his mind regains
itself, their glances become mutual; the sympathy of two old
associates gushes forth from the purest of fountains,--the oppressed
heart.
"Harry-oh, Harry! is it you?"
"Ellen! my good Ellen, my friend, and old master's friend!" is the
simultaneous salutation.
"Sold you, too?" enquires Harry, embracing her with all the fervour
of a father who has regained his long-lost child.
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