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know her history. "I am from Virginia." "What is your name?" he asked, hoping to do her service, if she should be in search of her husband, who might be a Fugitive. "Mrs. Hedgman, Sir." "Hedgman! Pray where is your husband?" She said, "I don't know: he was sold from me 12 years ago, and was sent to New Orleans. He wrote to say, if he had an opportunity, he should run away; if he is anywhere here, I should like to find him." He asked her to give him a general description of her husband, which she did, with increasing hope that she should yet see him again, her face flushing as recollection of the past rolled across her mind. The Chapel-keeper said, "If your description be correct, your husband is now in this chapel." Her eyes sparkled like the North Star, in a clear winter's night; much agitated, she gazed upon him with doubtful hope, wondering if he intended to deceive her. He opened the chapel-door, and in she stepped, looking earnestly down the aisle she recognised her husband in a moment, as he was sitting on the platform, in front of the pulpit, with his face toward the door. Her paces were quick,—tears flowing down her cheeks. He did not, at first, identify her, as she approached, but quickly, on a second look at the stranger, he traced the features of his wife, and instantly arising, he clasped her in his arms, embracing her in ecstacy of joy; to delineate this meeting is im-
