It was not only that he worshiped her with a blind idolatry, and knew that she returned his passion with equal strength and fervor, and that she would have waited for him long years, and married him at last but for the cloud upon his birth.  It was not this—­not his own misery that crushed him, nor even her present wretchedness that prostrated him—­no! but it was the awful, shapeless shadow of some infinite unutterable woe is Claudia’s future, and into which she was blindly rushing, that overwhelmed him.  Oh, to have saved her from this woe, he would gladly have laid down his life!

The door opened and Jim, his especial waiter, entered with two lighted candles on a tray.  He sat them on the table and was leaving the room, when Ishmael recalled him.  What I am about to relate is a trifle perhaps, but it will serve to show the perfect beauty of that nature which, in the midst of its own great sorrow, could think of the small wants of another.

“Jim, you asked me this morning to write a letter for you, to your mother, I think.”

“Yes, Master Ishmael, I thank you, sir; whenever you is at leisure, sir, with nothing to do; which I wouldn’t presume to be in a hurry, sir, nor likewise inconvenience you the least in the world.”

“It will not inconvenience me, Jim; it will give me pleasure, whenever you can spare me half an hour,” replied Ishmael, speaking with as much courtesy to the poor dependent as he would have used in addressing his wealthiest patron.

“Well, Master Ishmael, which I ought to say Mr. Worth, and I beg your pardon, sir, only it is the old love as makes me forget myself, and call you what I used to in the old days, because Mr. Worth do seem to leave me so far away—­”

“Call me what you please, Jim, we are old friends, and I love my old friends better than any new distinctions that could come between us, but which I will never allow to separate us.  What were you about to say, Jim?”

“Well, Master Ishmael, and I thank you sincere, sir, for letting of me call you so, I was going for to say, as I could be at your orders any time, even now, if it would suit you, sir; because I have lighted up all my rooms and set my table for dinner, which it is put back an hour because of Master Walter, who is expected by the six o’clock train this evening; and Sam is waiting in the hall, and I aint got anything very partic’lar to do for the next hour or so.”

“Very well, Jim; sit down in that chair and tell me what you want me to write,” said Ishmael, seating himself before his desk and dipping his pen in ink.

Yes, it was a small matter in itself; but it was characteristic of the man, thus to put aside his own poignant anguish to interest himself in the welfare of the humblest creature who invoked his aid.

“Now then, Jim.”

“Well, Master Ishmael,” said the poor fellow.  “You know what to say a heap better’n I do.  Write it beautiful, please.”