Mr. Mitchell was Superintendent of Indian Affairs, his office being in
the dwelling house, and I could hear him giving orders to his clerk,
as I ran lightly down the stairs, out of the front door to the street,
and with fleet foot, I skimmed the road which led to my mother's door,
and, reaching it, stood trembling in every limb with terror and
fatigue.
I could not gain admittance, as my mother was away to work and the
door was locked. A white woman, living next door, and who was always
friendly to mother, told me that she would not return until night. I
clasped my hands in despair and cried, "Oh! the white people have sold
me, and I had to run away to keep from being sent down the river."
This white lady, whose name I am sorry I cannot remember, sympathized
with me, as she knew my mother's story and had written many letters
for her, so she offered me the key of her house, which, fortunately,
fitted my mother's door, and I was soon inside, cowering with fear in
the darkness, magnifying every noise and every passing wind, until my
imagination had almost converted the little cottage into a boat, and I
was steaming down South, away from my mother, as fast as I could go.
Late at night mother returned, and was told all that had happened, and
after getting supper, she took me to a friend's house for
concealment, until the next day.
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