“What is the matter?” said I.

“I dunno, seh, ‘cep’n’ she’s mad ’cause docteh won’t leave heh stay and talk to Mist’ Wheatley; he made heh go, an’ I s’pose hit kindeh put heh out.”

“What was she doing?”

“Talkin’, seh; jiss talkin’ and prayin’.”

“And exciting the man into a fever,” said the doctor, entering at that moment.  “I came here half an hour ago,” he continued, turning to me, “and found this woman—­who really is a good nurse—­turned out of her husband’s room by that termagant who has just gone, and whom I found in the act of preparing the man for death, she having decided his hours on earth were numbered; in fact, I actually chanced in upon a species of commendatory prayer, which, if continued another half hour—­and I have every reason to think it would have been—­would almost inevitably have ended the man’s life.”

“I suppose I had better not see him this morning, then,” said I.

“Oh, yes; you can see him; he’s doing well now, and if he doesn’t talk too much, I think the sight of a cheerful face will do him good,” and I left him giving some directions to Ailse, while I proceeded up-stairs to the room where Thomas lay.  He was awake, so I walked up to his bedside, and asked him how he felt.

“I’m tollubul, thankee, seh; de medicine makes me kind o’ sleepy, that’s all.”

I seated myself beside him, there was a moment or two of silence, then he asked, fretfully: 

“Whai—­whaih’s Ailse?  I like to see the ’oman ‘roun’; s’haint got no speshul great gif’, but she’s kind o’ handy wen a body’s sick.”

“You don’t seem to care so much for gifted women in a sick-room, Thomas?” I remarked, somewhat mischievously, after I had summoned his wife from down-stairs.

“Well, naw, seh,” a little shamefacedly.  “Not so much.  You see, seh, dey—­dey’s mos’ too much fu’ a body, sich times.  Dey will talk, you’se dey will, an’ ’livah ‘scouhcis, an’ a sick man he hain’t got de strenth to—­to supplicate in kine, an’ hit kind o’ mawtifies him, seh.”

Once more there followed a silence, when I asked: 

“Thomas, why didn’t you give up those papers to the mob, when they attacked you last night?  Your retaining them might have cost you your life.  I didn’t mean you to endanger your life for them.”

He smiled slightly, as his glance met mine.

“I dunno, seh,” he replied, with his old reflective air.  “You tole me mos’ pehticaleh to hole on to ‘um, an’ ‘twouldn’t be doin’ my duty faithful to let ’um go ’s long ez I could hole on to ’um.”

“But suppose they had killed you?”

“Well, Mist’ Dunkin, ef dey had, I hope I’d been ready to go.  I ben tryin’ to lead a godly an’ Chris’chun life, ez Scripcheh sez, fu’ fawty yeahs, now, an’ I hope I’d a foun’ dyin’ grace at de las’.  You see, seh, thing hoped me mos’ was de thoughts of a tex’ Bro’ Moss preached on las’ Sund’y; ‘peached like hit hep’ on jinglin’ in my hade all time dey was jawin’ an’ fightin’ with me.”