Although Mrs. Arnold had told Mollie there was no need to fear the fugitive negroes who now and then made their way across the mountains, hoping to find freedom from slavery in the Northern States, the little girl’s words made Mrs. Arnold thoughtful. Supposing a fleeing Tennessee slave appealed to her for a hiding-place, or for assistance to escape into Kentucky, which remained loyal to the union, while Tennessee was a Confederate state, what could she do? Mr. and Mrs. Arnold both realized that, even on that remote mountain ridge, the fact that they were from the North, that their son was a soldier in the Northern army, would naturally prejudice Southerners against them, and if any member of the little household was discovered befriending a fleeing negro—who in those days was regarded as a piece of property by his master, and could be dragged back into slavery—it would place them in a dangerous position.

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She spoke of it to her husband, but Mr. Arnold saw no cause for uneasiness.

“Of course, if any human being came to our door in need we would have to do what we could for him. Especially if it were a black man or woman; for they have never had a fair chance in this country, and we are bound to help them. I do not think there are half a dozen people beside the Braggs who know anything about us; and they are our friends,” he concluded.

“Mr. Bragg declares he doesn’t care which side wins,” responded Mrs. Arnold. “He says he is ‘neutral,’ and that is why he is so angry at Len’s running away to join the Confederate army. But I don’t quite trust Steve Bragg.”

While Mr. and Mrs. Arnold discussed the questions that were then causing so much trouble, Berry and Mollie had reached the brook and were saying good-bye.

Berry had carefully explained just how Mollie’s doll had been made. “I spread out a piece of white cloth, doubled, and marked a doll out with a piece of charcoal, and then cut it out and stitched the two pieces together, just leaving a place open on top of the head, and then filled her with sawdust, sewed up the open place and60 covered her head with raveled yarn,” said Berry.

“P’raps I can make one!” Mollie suggested hopefully.

“Of course you could,” Berry agreed promptly.

“I’ll make a black nigger doll, so’s ‘Mrs. Arnold’ can have it for a slave,” said Mollie.

“Oh! Mollie, you can’t! That’s what this war is about; to make white people stop making slaves of black people; it isn’t fair!” declared Berry, and quickly added, “Mollie, why don’t you give your doll an easier name?”

“I don’t know any names. I loves your Ma, an’ I loves this doll; so I calls the doll ‘Mrs. Arnold,’” Mollie responded soberly, “an’ I don’ see no harm in makin’ a nigger doll.”

“Well, Mollie, my mother’s name is Ellen; why don’t you call the doll that?” Berry suggested.

“Oh! Yes! Ellen is lovely. ‘Mrs. Arnold,’ your name is ‘Ellen,’” Mollie promptly informed her doll, holding it out at arm’s length that she might better admire it.

“I’ll start back now,” said Berry. “School is going to be fine, isn’t it, Mollie?”

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Mollie vigorously nodded her shawl-covered head. “It’s grand!” she declared; and then, coming very close to Berry, she whispered, “I’ve got a secret! Maybe I can tell it to you to-morrow!” and before Berry had time to question her, Mollie had taken the basket that held the precious birthday cake and started to cross the brook, making her way carefully from stone to stone. She did not leap from the broad stone to the opposite bank, as Berry delighted in doing, but followed the stepping-stones until the stream was safely crossed. Then she turned and called to Berry, who had stood waiting to be sure that Mollie crossed the stream in safety.

“I’m all right, Berry,” she called. “I think it’s fine to be eleven.”

“What’s the secret, Mollie?” Berry called back; but Mollie had turned and was hurrying off toward home. Berry looked after the little figure in the trailing shawl until it vanished in the forest path, and then turned and ran lightly up the ridge. A cold wind crept among the branches of the tall oaks as Berry ran; a rabbit leaped out from the underbrush and sped along before her for a short distance, and then vanished. Squirrels scolded noisily from the oak62 trees, and from the deep woods Berry could hear the distant call of some winter-loving bird. But the little girl hardly noticed these familiar sounds of the forest.

“I wonder what Mollie’s secret can be?” she thought, and resolved to start out and meet Mollie the next morning. “Then she can tell me before lesson-time,” she decided.

Berry had just reached this conclusion when her quick eye caught the movement of a dark object behind the underbrush that bordered the path. “A fox, maybe!” she thought, stopping to look more closely at the dark form. As she looked the figure raised itself from behind the underbrush and Berry gave a startled exclamation; for it was not a fox or any woodland animal that confronted her, but a young negro girl, evidently more frightened than Berry, and it was Berry who spoke first.

“What are you hiding there for?” Berry demanded. “Come out in the path where I can see you.”

There were few negroes near Shiloh, and since coming to live in the mountain cabin the little Yankee girl had seldom encountered them. But she knew that Tennessee was a state where negroes63 were considered as the property of white masters; that negroes possessed no rights in regard to protection from cruelty and injustice. If they were fortunate in belonging to a kind master, and there were many such throughout the slaveholding states, they were well treated; but if owned by cruel, ignorant men, the negroes were abused; and it was from such unfair treatment that they frequently endeavored to escape by fleeing North. But, unless they could reach Canada, there was no safety for them in the Northern States, as the law of the union, then, gave their masters the right to pursue them and force them to return. To end this injustice was one of the chief reasons for the Civil War.

As Berry looked at the frightened black face that peered at her above the underbrush she instantly realized that this was a runaway slave, and she again called:

“Come out in the path where I can see you,” and now the negro girl crept out from her hiding-place and stood facing Berry.

“Oh, young Massa, don’ mek me go back,” she faltered. “I’se hongry an’ col’, an’ I dunno ’zackly whar I be; but I reckons, if yo’ jes’ go on, young Massa, I kin git off so’s I won’t be64 kotched,” and she fixed her big eyes pleadingly on Berry’s face, her thin form, clad in a ragged garment made of coarse bagging material, shivering in the cold.

“I’m a girl,” Berry announced. “You can’t hide out in the woods; it’s too cold. You’ll freeze,” she added quickly. “And you need not be afraid of me. I’ll help you.”

The negro girl stared at Berry as if even more frightened than before.

“Wot yo’ dressed up dis way for?” she asked.

“Never mind about me,” Berry replied, “but do as I say. If you will come with me you can have something warm to eat and drink, anyway. Then if you want to keep on running away you can.”

For a moment the little white girl, rosy, well clad, and unafraid, and the gaunt, half-clothed, frightened black girl faced each other. Then a softer expression crept over the face of the negro girl, and she took a step toward Berry. “I’se gwine ter trus’ yo’, young Mass—Missie,” she said softly.

Berry nodded. “Nobody shall hurt you,” she promised soberly. “And let’s run, or Father will be coming to find me.”

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But the negro girl shook her head dolefully. “I cyan’t run, young Mass—Missie; my feetes is hurt,” and now for the first time Berry noticed that the girl’s legs were bare, and that her feet were protected from the rough, frozen ground only by worn pieces of cloth, tied about with string. And at this Berry exclaimed pityingly:

“Your poor feet! Well, we’ll go easy,” and she clasped the girl’s thin arm, and started forward.

The negro girl did not speak again until they came in sight of the cabin, then she stopped suddenly. “Yo’ ain’ gwine ter let nobuddy sen’ me back ter Alabamy?” she asked fearfully.

Berry’s clasp on the girl’s arm tightened. “I am going to help you, I am going to be your friend!” she promised earnestly. And the slave girl, meeting the pitying, friendly glance of Berry’s brown eyes, was convinced that the impossible had happened; that a runaway slave girl had really found a friend. From that moment she had full confidence in Berry; whatever Berry told her to do she did instantly, sure that no harm could befall her as long as Berry was near.

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“What is your name?” Berry asked, as they reached the porch.

“My name’s Lily.”

Berry pushed open the door into the kitchen, still clasping her companion’s arm. “Mother, here is Lily!” she announced.