“What, Chloe!” he exclaimed in equal surprise. “What brings you up here? I thought you were miles away, in Virginia.”
“So I was, Mass' Richard. But Lor' bless you, when de Linkum sogers come, I couldn't stay no longer. I took and runned away.”
“Yes, Mass' Richard, here I is, for sure.”
“Don't like it as well as de Souf. It's too cold,” and Chloe shivered.
“But you would rather be here than there?”
“Yes, Mass' Richard. Here I own myself. Don't have no oberseer to crack his whip at me now. I'se a free woman now, and so's my little Pomp.”
The young man smiled at the innocent mistake.
“Pomp is your little boy, I suppose, Chloe.”
“He's as sassy as de debble,” said Chloe emphatically. “I don't know what's goin' to 'come of dat boy. He's most worried my life out.”
“Oh, he'll grow better as he grows older. Don't trouble yourself about him. But, Chloe, there's one favor I am going to ask of you.”
“Don't call me by my real name. For some reasons, which I can't at present explain, I prefer to be known as Henry Morton, for some months to come. Do you think you can remember to call me by that name?”
“Yes, Mass'--Henry,” said Chloe, looking perplexed.
Henry Morton turned round to meet the surprised looks of Frank and his mother.
“My friends,” he said, “I hope you will not feel distrustful of me, when I freely acknowledge to you that imperative reasons compel me for a time to appear under a name not my own. Chloe and I are old acquaintances, but I must request her to keep secret for a time her past knowledge concerning me. I think,” he added with a smile, “that she would have nothing to say that would damage me. Some time you shall know all. Are you satisfied?”
“Quite so,” said Mrs. Frost. “I have no doubt you have good and sufficient reason.”
“I will endeavor to justify your confidence,” said Henry Morton, an expression of pleasure lighting up his face.
The chill November days drew to a close. The shrill winds whistled through the branches of the trees, and stirred the leaves which lay in brown heaps upon the ground. But at the end of the month came Thanksgiving--the farmer's Harvest Home. The fruits of the field were in abundance but in many a home there were vacant chairs, never more, alas! to be filled. But he who dies in a noble cause leaves sweet and fragrant memories behind, which shall ever after make it pleasant to think of him.