At a Girl's Mercy, or, The Fortunes of War — page 83: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

72 AT A GIRI’S MERCY. strangling her, she fell forward upon the bed, clutch- ing the clothing in her trembling hands. How could she die, how could she die, how could she die? It was dreadful, dreadful, dreadful! But the Lord would help her—yes, the Lord would help her. Didn’t Mr. Johnson, the preacher, tell them that the Lord was exceeding pitiful and of tender mercy? * * * * * , oS * Clarissa stopped her as she was entering the kitchen, and said shortly, no softening of her face or voice: “T’se goin’, Lola. Ise may’s well git free es ther res’ ob yo.”’ And Lola caught hold of the siding of the door to steady herself in the first great wave of thankful- ness and hope. ER 0 em oe CHAPTER VII. FUGITIVES. Night had settled down in a drizzle of mist and a low soughing of the wind through the trees. “Et’s de chang’ ob de moon,” the plantation ne- eroes said, for to them the change of the moon meant change of weather as well. ‘‘Et’s goin’ ter be a dirty night, sho’.’’ And a dirty night it was, dark, with the ghostly glimmer of the camp-fire in the distance flickering and flaring now and then in the rising and falling of the wind, but a night that-gladdened the heart of Jim Brown, for who would hear distinctly their stealthy tread through the corn and rushes down the river, or notice so well the muffled ripples fol- Eomicbooks.co