Uncle Tom's Cabin & The Key to Uncle Tom's Cabin. Гарриет Бичер-Стоу

there? Thee must think about that, my daughter."

      "My daughter" came naturally from the lips of Rachel Halliday; for hers was just the face and form that made "mother" seem the most natural word in the world.

      Eliza's hands trembled, and some tears fell on her fine work; but she answered, firmly,

      "I shall do—anything I can find. I hope I can find something."

      "Thee knows thee can stay here, as long as thee pleases," said Rachel.

      "O, thank you," said Eliza, "but"—she pointed to Harry—"I can't sleep nights; I can't rest. Last night I dreamed I saw that man coming into the yard," she said, shuddering.

      "Poor child!" said Rachel, wiping her eyes; "but thee mustn't feel so. The Lord hath ordered it so that never hath a fugitive been stolen from our village. I trust thine will not be the first."

      The door here opened, and a little short, round, pin-cushiony woman stood at the door, with a cheery, blooming face, like a ripe apple. She was dressed, like Rachel, in sober gray, with the muslin folded neatly across her round, plump little chest.

      "Ruth Stedman," said Rachel, coming joyfully forward; "how is thee, Ruth? she said, heartily taking both her hands.

      "Nicely," said Ruth, taking off her little drab bonnet, and dusting it with her handkerchief, displaying, as she did so, a round little head, on which the Quaker cap sat with a sort of jaunty air, despite all the stroking and patting of the small fat hands, which were busily applied to arranging it. Certain stray locks of decidedly curly hair, too, had escaped here and there, and had to be coaxed and cajoled into their place again; and then the new comer, who might have been five-and-twenty, turned from the small looking-glass, before which she had been making these arrangements, and looked well pleased,—as most people who looked at her might have been,—for she was decidedly a wholesome, whole-hearted, chirruping little woman, as ever gladdened man's heart withal.

      "Ruth, this friend is Eliza Harris; and this is the little boy I told thee of."

      "I am glad to see thee, Eliza,—very," said Ruth, shaking hands, as if Eliza were an old friend she had long been expecting; "and this is thy dear boy,—I brought a cake for him," she said, holding out a little heart to the boy, who came up, gazing through his curls, and accepted it shyly.

      "Where's thy baby, Ruth?" said Rachel.

      "O, he's coming; but thy Mary caught him as I came in, and ran off with him to the barn, to show him to the children."

      At this moment, the door opened, and Mary, an honest, rosy-looking girl, with large brown eyes, like her mother's, came in with the baby.

      "Ah! ha!" said Rachel, coming up, and taking the great, white, fat fellow in her arms, "how good he looks, and how he does grow!"

      "To be sure, he does," said little bustling Ruth, as she took the child, and began taking off a little blue silk hood, and various layers and wrappers of outer garments; and having given a twitch here, and a pull there, and variously adjusted and arranged him, and kissed him heartily, she set him on the floor to collect his thoughts. Baby seemed quite used to this mode of proceeding, for he put his thumb in his mouth (as if it were quite a thing of course), and seemed soon absorbed in his own reflections, while the mother seated herself, and taking out a long stocking of mixed blue and white yarn, began to knit with briskness.

      "Mary, thee'd better fill the kettle, hadn't thee?" gently suggested the mother.

      Mary took the kettle to the well, and soon reappearing, placed it over the stove, where it was soon purring and steaming, a sort of censer of hospitality and good cheer. The peaches, moreover, in obedience to a few gentle whispers from Rachel, were soon deposited, by the same hand, in a stew-pan over the fire.

      Rachel now took down a snowy moulding-board, and, tying on an apron, proceeded quietly to making up some biscuits, first saying to Mary,—"Mary, hadn't thee better tell John to get a chicken ready?" and Mary disappeared accordingly.

      "And how is Abigail Peters?" said Rachel, as she went on with her biscuits.

      "O, she's better," said Ruth; "I was in, this morning; made the bed, tidied up the house. Leah Hills went in, this afternoon, and baked bread and pies enough to last some days; and I engaged to go back to get her up, this evening."

      "I will go in tomorrow, and do any cleaning there may be, and look over the mending," said Rachel.

      "Ah! that is well," said Ruth. "I've heard," she added, "that Hannah Stanwood is sick. John was up there, last night,—I must go there tomorrow."

      "John can come in here to his meals, if thee needs to stay all day," suggested Rachel.

      "Thank thee, Rachel; will see, tomorrow; but, here comes Simeon."

      Simeon Halliday, a tall, straight, muscular man, in drab coat and pantaloons, and broad-brimmed hat, now entered.

      "How is thee, Ruth?" he said, warmly, as he spread his broad open hand for her little fat palm; "and how is John?"

      "O! John is well, and all the rest of our folks," said Ruth, cheerily.

      "Any news, father?" said Rachel, as she was putting her biscuits into the oven.

      "Peter Stebbins told me that they should be along tonight, with friends," said Simeon, significantly, as he was washing his hands at a neat sink, in a little back porch.

      "Indeed!" said Rachel, looking thoughtfully, and glancing at Eliza.

      "Did thee say thy name was Harris?" said Simeon to Eliza, as he reentered.

      Rachel glanced quickly at her husband, as Eliza tremulously answered "yes;" her fears, ever uppermost, suggesting that possibly there might be advertisements out for her.

      "Mother!" said Simeon, standing in the porch, and calling Rachel out.

      "What does thee want, father?" said Rachel, rubbing her floury hands, as she went into the porch.

      "This child's husband is in the settlement, and will be here tonight," said Simeon.

      "Now, thee doesn't say that, father?" said Rachel, all her face radiant with joy.

      "It's really true. Peter was down yesterday, with the wagon, to the other stand, and there he found an old woman and two men; and one said his name was George Harris; and from what he told of his history, I am certain who he is. He is a bright, likely fellow, too."

      "Shall we tell her now?" said Simeon.

      "Let's tell Ruth," said Rachel. "Here, Ruth,—come here."

      Ruth laid down her knitting-work, and was in the back porch in a moment.

      "Ruth, what does thee think?" said Rachel. "Father says Eliza's husband is in the last company, and will be here tonight."

      A burst of joy from the little Quakeress interrupted the speech. She gave such a bound from the floor, as she clapped her little hands, that two stray curls fell from under her Quaker cap, and lay brightly on her white neckerchief.

      "Hush thee, dear!" said Rachel, gently; "hush, Ruth! Tell us, shall we tell her now?"

      "Now! to be sure,—this very minute. Why, now, suppose 't was my John, how should I feel? Do tell her, right off."

      "Thee uses thyself only to learn how to love thy neighbor, Ruth," said Simeon, looking, with a beaming face, on Ruth.

      "To be sure. Isn't it what we are made for? If I didn't love John and the baby, I should not know how to feel for her. Come, now do tell her,—do!" and she laid her hands persuasively on Rachel's arm. "Take her into thy bed-room, there, and let me fry the chicken while thee does it."

      Rachel came out into the kitchen, where Eliza was sewing, and opening the door of a small bed-room, said, gently, "Come in here with me, my daughter; I have news to tell thee."

      The blood flushed in Eliza's pale face; she rose, trembling with nervous anxiety, and looked towards her boy.

      "No, no," said little Ruth,