In the night when Harriet with two of her brothers, and two other
fugitives who had joined them arrived at the "fodder house," they
were exhausted and well-nigh famished. They sent the two strange
men up to the cabin to try to rouse "Old Ben," but not to let
their mother know that her children were so near her.

The men succeeded in rousing Old Ben, who came out quietly, and as
soon as he heard their story, went back into the house, gathered
together a quantity of provisions, and came down to the fodder
house. He placed the provisions inside the door, saying a few
words of welcome to his children, but taking care _not to see
them_. "I know what'll come of dis," he said, "an' I ain't gwine
to see my chillen, no how." The close espionage under which these
poor creatures dwelt, engendered in them a cunning and artifice,
which to them seemed only a fair and right attempt on their part,
to cope with power and cruelty constantly in force against them.

Up among the ears of corn lay the old man's children, and one of
them he had not seen for six years. It rained in torrents all that
Sunday, and there they lay among the corn, for they could not
start till night. At about daybreak John had joined them. There
were wide chinks in the boards of the fodder house, and through
these they could see the cabin of the old folks, now quite alone
in their old age. All day long, every few minutes, they would see
the old woman come out, and shading her eyes with her hand, take a
long look down the road to see if "de boys" were coming, and then
with a sad and disappointed air she would turn back into the
cabin, and they could almost hear her sigh as she did so.

What had become of the boys? Had they been sold off down South?