It was winter, and the clematis and passion-flower were not there; but there were the same walks her feet had so often pressed, and the same trees which had so often shaded her as she passed through the garden at the back of the house.

Old remembrances rushed upon her memory and caused her to shed tears freely.

Isabella was now in her native town, and near her daughter; but how could she communicate with her?
how could she see her?
To have made herself known would have been a suicidal act; betrayal would have followed, and she arrested.

Three days passed away, and still she remained in the hotel at which she had first put up, and yet she got no tidings of her child.
Unfortunately for Isabella, a disturbance had just broken out among the slave population in the State of Virginia, and all strangers were treated with suspicion.
The insurrection to which we now refer was headed by a full-blooded negro, who had been born and brought up a slave.

He had heard the crack of the driver's whip, and seen the warm blood streaming from the negro's body.