She could not hear a sound, and tiptoed cautiously along the hall to the
stairs. What if the door of her mother's room should open, she thought,
terrified at such a possibility. What could she say? She had promised
not to tell of the letter, and what reason could she give for creeping
out of the house at that hour?
But she reached the lower floor safely, and now came the danger of
making a noise when opening the door. Sylvia grasped the big key and
turned it slowly. Then she pulled at the heavy door, and it swung back
easily. She gave a long breath of relief as she stepped out on the
piazza. She left the door ajar, so that she could slip in easily on her
return. Keeping in the shadow of the trees she reached the street, and
now she felt sure that nothing could prevent her from delivering the
letter.
She ran swiftly along, now and then meeting someone who glanced
wonderingly at the flying little figure. She had reached King Street and
was nearly at the street where she was to turn, when suddenly a heavy
hand grasped her arm and nearly swung her from her feet.
"Running off, are you? And wearing your mistress's clothes at that, I'll
warrant," said a gruff voice. "Wall, now, whose darky are you?"
Sylvia pulled the silken scarf from her face, and even in the glimmer of
the dull street-lamp under which the man had drawn her he could see the
auburn hair and blue eyes. But he still kept his grasp on her arm. There
were slaves who were not black, he knew, and "quality white" girls were
not running about Charleston streets alone at night.
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