How true it is, that, concealed beneath the smallest things, there is a consolation which necessity may bring out:  how Providence has suited it to our misfortunes!

“There are a few things here-a very few-I should like to take to my cell; perhaps I can send for them,” he remarks, looking at the officer, enquiringly.

“My name is Martin-Captain Martin, they call me,"-returns that functionary, politely.  “If you accept my word of honour, I pledge it they are taken care of, and sent to your apartments.”

“You mean my new lodging-house, or my new grave, I suppose,” interrupted Marston, jocosely, pointing out to Daddy the few articles of bedding, chairs, and a window-curtain he desired removed.  Daddy has been pensively standing by the fire-place the while, contemplating the scene.

Marston soon announces his readiness to proceed; and, followed by the old slave, the officer leads the way down the ricketty old stairs to the street.  “I’s gwine t’see whar dey takes old mas’r, any how, reckon I is,” says the old slave, giving his head a significant turn.

“Now, sir,” interrupts the officer, as they arrive at the bottom of the stairs, “perhaps you have a delicacy about going through the street with a sheriff; many men have:  therefore I shall confide in your honour, sir, and shall give you the privilege of proceeding to the gaol as best suits your feelings.  I never allow myself to follow the will of creditors; if I did, my duties would be turned into a system of tyranny, to gratify their feelings only.  Now, you may take a carriage, or walk; only meet me at the prison gate.”

“Thanks, thanks!” returns Marston, grateful for the officer’s kindness, “my crime is generosity; you need not fear me.  My old faithful here will guide me along.”  The officer bows assent, and with a respectful wave of the hand they separate to pursue different routes.

Marston walks slowly along, Bob keeping pace close behind.  He passes many of his old acquaintances, who, in better times, would have recognised him with a cordial embrace; at present they have scarcely a nod to spare.  Marston, however, is firm in his resolution, looks not on one side nor the other, and reaches the prison-gate in good time.  The officer has reached it in advance, and waits him there.  They pause a few moments as Marston scans the frowning wall that encloses the gloomy-looking old prison.  “I am ready to go in,” says Marston; and just as they are about to enter the arched gate, the old slave touches him on the arm, and says, “Mas’r, dat’s no place fo’h Bob.  Can’t stand seein’ on ye locked up wid sich folks as in dah!” Solicitously he looks in his master’s face.  The man of trouble grasps firmly the old slave’s hand, holds it in silence for some minutes-the officer, moved by the touching scene, turns his head away-as tears course down his cheeks.  He has no words to speak the emotions of his heart; he shakes the old man’s hand affectionately, attempts to whisper a word in his ear, but is too deeply affected.