“Don’t be scared, it’s me,” said Fessenden’s; for he guessed the fellow was frightened.

“Excuse me, Sir!  I really didn’t know it was you, Sir!” said the man, with agitated politeness.  “And who might you be, Sir? if I may be so bold as to inquire.”  And regaining his balance, his umbrella, and his self-possession, he drew near, and squatted cautiously before the prostrate beggar, who, had his eyesight been half as keen for the living as it was for the dead, would have discovered that the face bending over him was black.

“Never mind me,” said Fessenden’s.  “Did it hurt ye?”

“Well, Sir,—­no, Sir,—­only my knee went pretty seriously into something wet.  And I believe I’ve turned my umbrella wrong side out.  I say, Sir, what was you doing, lying here, Sir?  You don’t think of remaining here all night, I trust, Sir?”

“I’ve nowhere else to go,” said the boy, trying to rise.

The black man helped him up.

“But this never’ll do, you know! such an inclement night as this is!—­you’d die before morning, sure!  Just wait till I can get my umbrella into shape,—­my gracious! how the wind pulls it!  Now, then, suppose you come along with me.”

“Please, Sir, I can’t walk”; for the lad’s limbs had stiffened, in spite of his angels.

“Is that so, Sir?  Let me see; about how much do you weigh, Sir?  Not much above a hundred, do you?  It isn’t impossible but I may take you on my back.  Suppose you try it.”

“Oh, I can’t!” groaned the boy.

“Excuse me for contradicting you, but I think you can, Sir.  I shouldn’t like to do it myself, in the daytime; but in the night so, who cares?  Nobody’ll laugh at us, even if we don’t succeed.  Really, I wish you wasn’t quite so wet, Sir; for these here is my Sunday clothes.  But never mind a little water; we’ll find a fire to get dry again.  There you are, my friend!  A little higher.  Put your hands over across my breast.  Couldn’t manage to hold, the umbrella over us, could you?  So fashion.  Now steady, while I rise with you.”

And the stalwart young negro, hooking his arms well under the legs of his rider, got up stoopingly, gave a toss and a jolt to get him into the right position, and walked off with him.  Away they go, tramp, tramp, in the storm and darkness.  Thank Heaven, the Judge’s fame is safe!  If the pauper dies, it will not be at his door.  Little he knows, there in his elegant study, what an inestimable service this black Samaritan is rendering him.  And it was just; for, after all the Judge had done for the negro, (who, I suppose, was equally unconscious of any substantial benefit received,) it was time that the negro should do something for him in return.