Eliza leaned out of the carriage, and put out her hand,--a hand as soft and beautiful as was given in return.

She fixed her large, dark eyes, full of earnest meaning, on Mrs.Bird's face, and seemed going to speak.

Her lips moved,--she tried once or twice, but there was no sound,--and pointing upward, with a look never to be forgotten, she fell back in the seat, and covered her face.

The door was shut, and the carriage drove on.
What a situation, now, for a patriotic senator, that had been all the week before spurring up the legislature of his native state to pass more stringent resolutions against escaping fugitives, their harborers and abettors! Our good senator in his native state had not been exceeded by any of his brethren at Washington, in the sort of eloquence which has won for them immortal renown! How sublimely he had sat with his hands in his pockets, and scouted all sentimental weakness of those who would put the welfare of a few miserable fugitives before great state interests! He was as bold as a lion about it, and "mightily convinced" not only himself, but everybody that heard him;--but then his idea of a fugitive was only an idea of the letters that spell the word,--or at the most, the image of a little newspaper picture of a man with a stick and bundle with "Ran away from the subscriber" under it.

The magic of the real presence of distress,--the imploring human eye, the frail, trembling human hand, the despairing appeal of helpless agony,--these he had never tried.