were, I had found something to interest me.
They were love-letters, written in New England
half a century back. Their old-fashioned
raciness of diction was often amusing, sometimes
touching, so I read on, sorely puzzled to guess
the meaning of some phrases, until my studies
were interrupted by—

"Hi, mas'r! hist! dere no time to lose, sar."

I looked round, to discover that a small
square hole had been cut through the wall of
rough-hewn timber, and that the ugly honest
face of poor Job, the little negro carpenter,
was peering through it. I started up, and
could not restrain an exclamation of surprise.
The black's rolling eyeballs expressed alarm,
and he pressed his finger on his lips.

"Mas'r sabe little Polly's life, and Job owe
mas'r a good turn. Britisher in jail; all him
fine white friends desert 'um—Job one poor
black rascal, but Job come to set mas'r free."

And the little man began to work away with
his saw, more vigorously than ever.

"My poor fellow," said I, my heart smiting
me as I remembered how unkindly I had
repulsed the black's uncouth gratitude; "I
cannot avail myself of your generosity. I
ought to take my trial, or they will say I am
guilty, and——"

"Mas'r talk what hab no sense in him. Dey
all angry, fierce men, an' will hab revenge,
whether Britisher try cheat 'em or no. One
day, dem cool down—all right; Job hear Mas'r
Wormald and de rest, at tavern, talk ob not
wait no more—too long to 'sizes—break prison-
door and hang up Britisher on tree—Judge
Lynch!"

Rasp, rasp, went the saw.

This news decided me that it would be fatal
scrupulousness to await the result of a trial.
I therefore accepted the saw which Job handed
me through the aperture, and before long our
combined efforts had made a sufficiently large
hole to allow of my egress. Job hurriedly thrust
back his tools into his wallet, and pricked up
his ears as a distant noise reached him.

"Dis way, mas'r. Job hid de ole dug-out
'mong rushes. Yah! dem de Reg'lators for sartain.
Quick, sar."

Hastily we embarked in the little "dug-out,"
or canoe, grasped the paddles, and shot out into
the stream. As we did so, the sound of angry
voices and crashing woodwork became very
distinct, and a flash of bright torchlight from every
window proved that the excited rabble had
burst into the little prison.

"Golly, mas'r, we only jest in time! Nebber
care. Ole Kentuck not far off."

A few minutes' paddling bore us in safety
across the broad river to the Kentucky bank.
I was still dressed in the torn clothes in
which I had been brought to Madison, but
Job's thoughtfulness had provided a lumberman's
coarse suit of blue blanket cloth, which
was rolled up in the canoe, and which he
insisted on my wearing as a needful disguise. He
himself was to return straight to Cincinnati.
He was confident that no one would know or
suspect his share in my escape, the penalty of
which, to one of his colour, would be burning
alive, at the hands of the fierce populace.

I was miles away before dawn, walking
rapidly south; by morning I found myself far
from the Ohio, and approaching a town. Hungry
and footsore, I was much in need of rest and
refreshment, and now remembered for the first
time that I was penniless, having been deprived of
my watch and purse on my confinement in the jail.
Something heavy in the pocket of my blanketcoat
attracted my attention, and on examination
I found it to be a little heap of dollars,
dimes, and cents, tightly twisted up in a scrap
of some old newspaper—Job's parting gift—
perhaps the poor black's whole savings. Thanks
to Job, I was thus enabled to reach Lexington,
where I found employment in a school. More
than a year afterwards, I was in New York, and
ventured to call on the merchant to whom my
college friend had introduced me. I told him
what had happened.

"Petter, Latch, and Jarman!" said he;
"why, my good sir, their trial has been the
excitement of New York for the last five days;
the Herald and Tribune were full of it, but
perhaps you don't care much for our high-pressure
journals. At any rate, they are condemned to
the 'Tombs' for life, and though Petter tried to
prove an alibi, he failed entirely. They were
sad rogues—made a science of forgery, and
usually kept clear of the dangers into which
they pushed their victims. By-the-by, Mr. Hill,
there's a letter been lying here for you these
three months, sealed with black wax."

The letter announced the decease of my uncle,
and that, in a death-bed revulsion of feeling, he
had made me his heir. Before quitting
America I paid every cent due to the Western
farmers: who sent me a sort of round robin, in
which they fairly owned that I was freed from
blame, and that they had been in error. I need
not add, that my faithful friend, poor dear Job,
was not forgotten in my hour of prosperity.

Early in March will be commenced a New Serial Work
of Fiction by
CHARLES READE, D.C.L,
Author of " IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND."

Just published, in Three Volumes, post 8vo,
NO NAME.
By WILKIE COLLINS.
SAMPSON Low, SON, and Co., 47, Ludgate-hill.
*** The author begs to announce that he has protected his right of property (so far as the stage is concerned) in the work of his own invention, by causing a dramatic adaptation of "No Name" to be written, of which he is the sole proprietor, and which has been published and entered at Stationers' Hull as the law directs.