of whom his recollection was faint; and then his father, with insanity in his eyes.  He felt, as it were, their presence around him, but it was a companionship which afforded no pleasure.  There seemed to be something about himself that invincibly held them off, notwithstanding their attempts to approach—­a sullen sphere, which projected a dark shadow, only to the edge of which the spirits could come, and which they made repeated efforts to cross.

While Armstrong was suffering under these strange delusions, Felix approached, to call him to breakfast.  The black beheld him walking backwards and forwards, with orderly and composed steps, and congratulated himself upon the change since the day before.  He had not, however, ventured to address his master since being ordered away, and uncertain how he would be received, preferred to be spoken to first.  With this view, he drew nigh one of the flower-beds, which Armstrong was passing and re-passing, and pretended to busy himself with tying up one of the rose bushes, then in full bloom.  Armstrong did not see Felix as he passed, so deep was his reverie, but on retracing his steps, he observed a shadow on the path, which occasioned him to lift his eyes, when he discerned the black.  He stopped and spoke.

“Felix,” he said, “I was unkind to you yesterday.  I ask your pardon.”

“O, Mr. Armstrong,” said Felix, his eyes protruding with astonishment, “there is no ’casion.  I say so many foolish things, it is no wonder you out of patience sometime.”

“No, Felix; it was a fancied superiority that made me speak harshly.  You have always been a good and faithful servant,” he continued, taking out his pocket-book, which he opened mechanically, as from the force of habit, “and I wish I had it in my power to express better my sense of the obligation.  But why do I open it?” he said, closing at the same time, and offering it to Felix.  “You will find here what may be of use to you, though I think there is little enjoyment purchasable with money.”

“Why!  Mr. Armstrong,” cried Felix, stepping back.  “What for do I want more money?  I have enough, and you will please keep it, sir, to give some poor man if you wish.”

“You are right to despise it,” said Armstrong.  “It shows a superiority of soul.  Now here is this poor black,” he went on soliloquizing, though all the time Felix stood before him, “who has learned that lesson of contentment which the generality never learn.  Rich in his poverty here, an inheritor of the skies, I have only insulted him by so contemptible an offer.”  His head sunk upon his breast, his eyes fell upon the ground, his pocket-book dropped from his unconscious hand, and he resumed his walk.  The negro stooped and picked it up, saying, to himself: 

“Very strange!  Mr. Armstrong act as if pocket-book chock full o’ bank-bills grow like chick-weed, but I will take him under my protecshum till I give him to Miss Faith.”