"Yes, d--n you, be quick! do you want to hang me?"

Quick as a spirit Hitty snatched her child, and wrapped him in the
blanket where he lay; her shawl was on the chair she had slept in, her
hood upon a nail by the door, and flinging both on, with the child in
her arms, she followed her husband down-stairs, across the back-yard,
hitting her feet against stones and logs in the darkness, stumbling
often, but never falling, till the shadow of the trees was past, and the
starlight showed her that they were traversing the open fields, now
crisp with frost, but even to the tread,--over two or three of these,
through a pine-wood that was a landmark to Hitty, for she well knew that
it lay between the turnpike-road and another, less frequented, that by
various windings went toward the Connecticut Hue,--then over a tiny
brook on its unsteady bridge of logs, and out into a lane, where a
rough-spoken man was waiting for them, at the head of a strong horse
harnessed to one of those wagons without springs that New-Englanders
like to make themselves uncomfortable in. Her husband turned to her
abruptly.

"Get in," said he; "get in behind; there's hay enough; and don't breathe
loud, or I'll murder you!"

She clambered into the wagon and seated herself on the hay, hushing her
child, who nestled and moaned in her arms, though she had carried him
with all possible care. A sharp cut of the whip sent the powerful horse
off at full speed, and soon this ill-matched party were fast traversing
the narrow road that wound about the country for the use of every farm
within a mile of its necessary course, a course tending toward the
Connecticut.