But perhaps the less said on the subject the better.  Pass over that golden Sunday in the lad’s life.  Alas, when will he ever have such another?  For here it is Monday morning, and the house is to be torn down.

There seems to be no mistake about it.  Mr. Frisbie has come over early, driven in his light open carriage by his man Stephen, to see that the niggers are out.  And yonder come the workmen, to commence the work of demolition.

But the niggers are not out; not an article of furniture has been removed.

“You see, Sir,”—­Mr. Williams calmly represents the case to his landlord, as he sits in his carriage,—­“it has been impossible.  We shall certainly go, just as soon as we can get another house anywhere in town”—­

“I don’t want you to get another house in town,” interrupts the full-blooded, red-faced Frisbie.  “We have had enough of you.  You have had fair warning.  Now out with your traps, and off with you!”

“I trust, at least, Sir, you will give us another week”—­

“Not an hour!”

“One day,” remonstrates the mild negro; “I don’t think you will refuse us that.”

“Not a minute!” exclaims the firm Frisbie.  “I’ve borne with you long enough.  Fact is, we have got tired of niggers in this town.  I bought the house with you in it, or you never would have got in.  Now it is coming down.  Call out your folks, and save your stuff, if you’re going to.—­Good morning, Adsly,” to the master carpenter.  “Go to work with your fellows.  Guess they’ll be glad to get out by the time you’ve ripped the roof off.”

Mr. Williams retires, disheartened, his visage surcharged with trouble.  For this wretched dwelling was his home, and dear to him.  It was the centre of his world.  Around it all the humble hopes and pleasures of the man had clustered for years.  When weary with the long day’s heavy toil, here he had found rest.  To this spot his spirit, sorrow-laden, had ever turned with gratitude and yearning.  And here he had found shelter, here he had found love and comfort, the lonely, despised man.  Even care and grief had contributed to strengthen the hold of his heart upon this soil.  Here had died the only child he had ever lost; and in the old burying-ground, over the hill yonder, it was buried.  Under this mean roof he had laid his sorrows before the Lord, he had wrestled with the Lord in prayer, and his burdens had been taken from him, and light and gladness had been poured upon his soul.  Oh, ye proud! do you think that happiness dwells only in high places, or that these lowly homes are not dear to the poor?

But now this sole haven of the negro and his family was to be destroyed.  Cruel cold blew the December wind, that wintry morning.  And the gusts of the landlord’s temper were equally pitiless.

* * * * *

HEAD-QUARTERS OF BEER-DRINKING.