don't help me. She hasn't any mother, she's a little t

Mush, and scud. How lightly she stepped over that back chamber floor,
and how gingerly she opened the grain-chest lid. The thief looked
piteously out at her from his bed of Indian corn. He was a handsome man,
somewhere between forty and fifty. Indeed he came of a very good family
in a town not so very far away. Horse-thiefs numbered some very
respectable personages in their clan in those days sometimes. They
carried on a whispered conversation while he ate. It was arranged that
Ann was to assist him off that night. What a day poor Ann had, listening
and watching in constant terror every moment, for fear something would
betray her. Beside, her conscience troubled her sadly; she was far from
being sure that she was doing right in hiding a thief from justice. But
the poor man's tears, and the mention of his daughter, had turned the
scale with her; she could not give him up. Her greatest fear was lest
Mrs. Polly should take a notion to search for mice in the grain-chests.
She so hoped Nabby would