He was unusually cheerful. He had made a great deal in the last few months; had grown to be quite a favorite with the keeper of the hotel, and was liberally paid for his Sunday and holiday labors, and, by errands for, and donations from, the boarders, had contrived to lay up a considerable sum.
"I hope, dearest, to be able soon to accomplish my freedom; then I shall be ready to buy you. How much does Miss Nancy ask for you?"
"Oh, Henry, I cannot leave her, even if I were able to pay down every cent that she demands for me. I should dislike to go away from her. She is so kind and good; has been such a friend to me that I could not desert her. Who would nurse her? Who would feel the same interest in her that I do? No, I will stay with her as long as she lives, and do all I can to prove my gratitude."
"What do you mean, Ann? Would you refuse to make me happy? Miss Nancy has other friends who would wait upon her."
"But, Henry, that does not release me from my obligation. When she was on the eve of starting upon a journey, you went to her with the story of my danger. She promptly consented to buy me without even seeing me. I was not purchased as an article of property; with the noble liberality of a philanthropist, she ransomed, at a heavy price, a suffering sister, and shall I be such an ingrate as to leave her? No, she and Mr. Trueman of Boston, are the two beings whom I would willingly serve forever."
Just then a deep sigh burst from the full heart of some one, and I thought I heard a retreating footstep.
"Who can that have been?" asked Henry.
We examined the hall, the dining-room, my apartment; and I knocked at Miss Nancy's door, but, receiving no answer, I judged she was asleep.
"It was but one of those peculiar voices of the night, which are the better heard from this intense silence," said Henry, and, finding that my alarm was quieted, he bade me an affectionate good-night, and so we parted.