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“I am of your opinion,” answered the broker; and the two, having thus fully expressed their opinion, parted.

Mr. Lang was not much troubled in finding his companion. He entered the cellar just as the latter had arisen from his chesty couch, and a cordial grasp of the hand bore witness that friends had met.

Both were aware that the place in which they were was not of very good repute, and made all possible haste to remove. But, to effect this successfully, it was necessary that Mr. Lang should have a change of dress.

He was making this change when half a dozen men unexpectedly entered. “You are my prisoner,” said one, catching hold of Mr. Lang by the coat-collar. “Tropes, secure the other.”

They were now both in custody, and the officers, after a little search, discovered the broken box, and arrested the black man.

“For what am I arrested?” inquired Mr. Lang.

“That you will soon know,” was the reply.

“But I demand an answer now. I will not move a step till I get it.”

“What! what’s that?” said a stout, rough-looking man, striking the prisoner, and treating him more like a dog than what he was.

“I demand an answer to my inquiry. For what am I arrested?”

“He’s a dangerous man,” remarked another of the officers; “it’s best to put him in irons;” whereupon he drew from a capacious pocket a pair of rusty manacles. Mr. Lang, and his two fellows in trouble, found it best to coolly submit, and did so. Five minutes passed, and the cold walls of a prison enclosed them.

CHAPTER III.

Daylight breaks, and the dwellers upon a thousand hills rejoice in the first rays of the morning sun.

“Didst thou ever hear that promise, ‘God will provide’? inquired a pale, yet beautiful girl, as she bent over the form of a feverish woman, in a small, yet neatly-furnished room.

“Yes,” was the reply; “and he who allows not a sparrow to fall unnoticed, shall he not much more care for us? Yes, Julia, God will provide. My soul, trust thou in God!”

It was Mrs. Lang. The good lady who had befriended her was suddenly taken ill, and as suddenly died. Mrs. Lang, with her daughter, left the house, and, hiring a small room at an exorbitant rent, endeavored, by the use of her needle, to live. She labored hard; the morning’s first light found her at her task, and midnight’s silent hour often found her there. The daughter too was there; together they labored, and together shared the joys and sorrows of a worse than widowed and orphaned state. Naturally of a feeble constitution, Mrs. Lang could not long bear up under that labor, and fell. Then that daughter was as a ministering angel, attending and watching over her, and anticipating her every want. Long was she obliged to labor to provide the necessaries of life; often working hard, and receiving but ten to fifteen cents a day for that which, if paid for as it should be, would have brought her a dollar. It was after receiving her small pittance and having returned to her home, that the words at the commencement of this chapter fell from her lips. Her mother, with deep solicitude, inquired her success.

“He says he can get those duck trousers made for three cents, and that, if I will not make them for that, he can give me no more work. You know, mother, that I work eighteen hours of the twenty-four, and can but just make two pair,–that would be but six cents a day.”

“My child,” said the mother, rising with unusual strength, “refuse such a slavish offer. Let him not, in order to enrich himself, by degrees take your life. Death’s arrows have now near reached you. Do not thus wear out your life. Let us die!”

She would have said more; but, exhausted by the effort, she sank back upon her pillow. Then came the inquiry, “Didst thou ever hear that promise, ‘God will provide’?”