"Still,"--thought he as they walked along--"it seems this man's name is William Still. Then if he is my brother, that must be my name, too. I wish I knowed. And his mother has always loved the boys she lost, and talked a heap about 'em. Well, this is an oncommon case. 'Pears like they all believe this man's tale; but I can't think my mother's a livin' yet, and that I've come right on to one of her children. It seems mighty queer that they all are so ready to own a stranger, any how. Well, I shall know more about it to-morrow, when I come to see the other 'ooman; but I'd a heap ruther staid with Mrs. Byas this yer one night. Thar's no knowin'

what'll happen afore mornin'."

Thus, full of doubts and fears, he walked silently beside his young companion towards his home. This was a substantial three-story brick house, situated in a retired, though pleasant part of the city.

Mrs. Still was absent on a visit to her husband's relatives in New Jersey; and after eating their supper the excited brothers separated for the night.

Peter, when left alone in his chamber, gave way to his long-pent grief. Oh! why had he thus exposed himself to every danger? Why did not Mr. Friedman give him more instructions with regard to his future course. Did he not know that his path would be beset with dangers? Then came thoughts of poor Vina, and the children; and he knew they were thinking of "father," and feeling sure he must be happy now that he was free. Ah well, he was glad they could not know the dangers which surrounded him. What could these people intend to do? Oh! if he should find after all that their tale were true--but it could not be. Perhaps they were all Abolitionists, and had contrived a plan to carry him off and sell him.

For fear that he might fall asleep and be surprised, he piled the furniture of the room against the door; looking first under the bed, and examining carefully every corner, to be sure that no enemy was concealed in his chamber. He then lay down; and after wearying himself with striving to devise some plan of escape from the imaginary dangers which encompa.s.sed him, he fell asleep.

Even then he found no rest, for soon his room was stealthily entered by armed men. Starting from his slumber, he listened to hear their footsteps,-- but all was still. Then he was about to leave Tusc.u.mbia with his master; and all his clothes were gone. Again he was in the little cabin where Vina cared for his children, and prayed for their father, and ruffians came and tore him from their arms. All night his dreams were gloomy horrid; and in the morning he was unrefreshed. Yet the light of a new day was welcome; for he was anxious to learn more of these strange people who claimed him as a brother.

After breakfast he returned to his boarding-house; where he had a long conversation with Mrs. Byas. She was utterly unconscious of the existence of his doubts and fears; yet her frankness of manner, and her evident confidence in the integrity of "Mr. Still" went far to remove them from his mind.

At twelve o'clock he went, according to appointment, to the house of Miss Mary Still, in order to accompany her in a visit to other members of her family. She received him with sisterly affection--manifesting not, by word or look, a doubt of his being indeed one of her own lost brothers; and the two soon started for the residence of the other sister who lived in the city.

Her name was Kitty. She was several years older than her sister Mary, and was, at this time, a widow. Her daughter was standing near the door as they entered, and inquired for her mother. Away she ran to call her.

"O mother," cried she, "Aunt Mary has come and brought a man with her that looks just like my grandfather. Come, quick, and see him."

"Kitty," said Mary, as her sister approached, "here is one of our lost brothers. He came to William last night, and I am going right away with him to see mother."

Kitty asked no explanation. She saw in him a striking likeness to both her parents; and after the first burst of joy was over, she prepared to accompany them. "Yes, I'll go too;" said she. "How glad I am! What will mother say ?"

The small steamboat, as it left the wharf that afternoon, bore no more interesting group than this. The two sisters alternately questioned and congratulated their new-found brother; and he--his heart was full. Now, for a moment, he believed that it was real--that they were indeed his sisters; and then his doubts returned. The joy was greater than his brightest hopes had promised.

But of one thing he was sure. He was upon the Delaware river--that beautiful stream which had ever been the pole-star of his hopes. He blessed its bright waters, and its verdant banks. They had been beautiful in his mind's eye, and now he felt that even if this new hope were all delusive, he must yet be near the home of his childhood. He strove to recall the look that his mother wore when last he saw her face, and then he wondered how he could for a moment hope to meet her again in life.

Thus between hope and fear, between confidence and doubt, he wavered, till they reached Long Bridge, about ten miles above the city. Here they landed, and took seats in the stage for Medford; near which town resided their brother--Dr. James Still.

When they arrived at his house, it was nearly dark, and they thought best to remain there all night, and go to see their mother the next morning. "There," said one of the sisters,"is brother James now walking towards the barn."

He turned, and looked towards them, and the moment Peter saw his face, his doubts departed, to return no more. He was so like poor Levin, that dear brother who lay low in Alabama, there could be no mistake. The full tide of joy rushed over his soul. He had found brothers and sisters! His mother lived! He should yet see her face.

For a short time after their arrival, all was excitement and confusion; the sisters who had accompanied him both talked at once, and all the family pressed eagerly forward to greet him who had come, as it were, from the dead. His resemblance to their family was so striking that they hesitated not for a moment to receive him as a brother.

In relating incidents of the long years of his bondage the evening pa.s.sed away--that pleasant evening, long will it be remembered by each member of that little circle.

Peter's heart was now at rest. He had realized the dream of his boyhood--the great hope of his riper years. "Oh," thought he, "if poor Levin could be with us now; and if Vina and the dear children were only free, I shouldn't know what more to ask, for."

Early the next morning, Dr. Still, with his new found brother, and the two sisters set out to visit their mother, who lived eight miles distant. On the way they agreed, as far as possible, to avoid surprising or exciting their mother, as on account of her great age (she was nearly eighty) they feared that by a shock, even though it were a joyful one, she might be overcome.

The venerable woman lived with Samuel, the oldest, except Peter, of her sons, upon the farm which had been owned by her late husband. When her children, arrived, she had just risen, and was standing in the door. Peter's first impulse was to spring from the wagon, and to clasp the precious form of his mother to his heart, but his sisters' caution sounded in his ears, and he struggled to control himself. Forcing back the flood of tenderness which came gushing up from his throbbing heart, he walked with placid face behind his sisters, who advanced to greet their beloved parent.

"Mother, said Kitty, "you know it is the custom, when one of your daughters marries, for her to come home, and bring your new son-in-law. Now which, of these would you rather take for your son?" pointing as she spoke to Peter, and to the man who had been hired by her brother James to drive them out. The mother answered with a smile, and the party entered the house.

Peter chose a seat near his mother, and subduing his emotions, gazed earnestly upon her aged face. There was the same mole concerning which he had so often disputed with his brother Levin, who always maintained that it was only a dark spot upon her face.

His thoughts were busy with the past. Ah! how well he remembered the time when his young lips had pressed that mother's cheek, when all his childish griefs had been forgotten while he lay folded to that loving breast.

He remembered too, the kindnapper, with his slimy, lying tongue; his transfer to Kentucky, and the heavy blows by which they strove to crush out from his young heart the memory of his mother's love, all his long years of weary, unrequited toil--a sad procession, pa.s.sed before him as he sat apparently a calm spectator of the joyous greetings of his kindred. His brother also, he remembered, and that brother's grave, a far-off, unmarked grave, and all that brother's sorrows. Yes, he remembered all the past. The host of cruel wrongs which he had suffered rushed at once into his mind, and from the stand point which he had now gained, the heartless acts of his oppressors, looked a hundred fold more hateful than before.

But he was not long left to his own thoughts. The excitement of their arrival having subsided, he said to his mother, "Are all these your children."

"Yes," she replied, "the most of them are mine."

"You have a large family."

"Yes, I have had eighteen children."

"How many have you livin'?"

"I have buried eight, and I have eight, living."

"I thought you said you had eighteen--eight livin' and eight dead would make but sixteen."

The breast of the aged woman heaved as with long-pent anguish!

"Ah!" said she, "them two boys have been more trouble to me than all the rest of my children. I've grieved about them a great many years."

"What became of them?" asked Peter.

"I never knew what became of them. I left them asleep in the bed, the last time I ever see them. I never knew whether they was stole and carried off, or whether they was dead. I hope though, they're in heaven."

At that moment, her oldest daughter, Mahala,*

* Peter remembered her as 'Merica. The little Charity he also remembered, was the daughter of his mother's sister.

who lived very near, came running in. "Do tell me," cried she, half out of breath, "what is the matter? Is any body dead?"

No one replied. She glanced around the room. "Who's this?" cried she, talking to mother. "Who is he? Is n't he one of mother's lost children? He favors the family, and I'm sure he must be one of them."

"Who? me?" said Peter.

"Yes; mother lost two children a great many years ago, and you must be one of them."

"I'm a stranger from Alabama," said he.

"I can't help it," cried the excited woman. "I am sure you are one of mother's children, for you favor the family."

One of the other sisters then approached the mother, and broke to her the joyful news. The aged woman sat for a moment bewildered by the strange scene--then rising, she walked into the next room, where she knelt in prayer.

In a short time she returned, trembling in every limb, though her face was calm. "Who are you?" said she, approaching the stranger.

"My name," said he, "is Peter, and I had a brother Levin. My father's name was Levin, and my mother's name was Sidney --."

The mother raised her tear-dimmed eyes to heaven. "O, Lord," she cried, "how long have I prayed to see my two sons! Can it be that they have come? Oh! if you are my child, tell me how d'y' once more!"

The long-lost son was blest. He, clasped his mother to his warm, full heart, and joyful tears stole down his dusky cheeks.

One week he spent with his new-found kindred. As he related to them the history of his years of bondage, and described the strangely varied scenes through which his path had led, his listeners were never weary; and when he told of all poor Levin's sorrows, of his years of patient suffering, and his peaceful, happy death, the spirit of their departed brother seemed to hover near the little circle, and to whisper to each whisper to each weeper there--"Dry now your tears, for where I dwell are neither bonds nor tortures--sorrow and sighing are unknown."