“He was a good master,” rejoins Harry.

“He wasn’t your master-Was he?” enquires the gaoler, in gruff accents.

“Once he was.”

“But, did you see him die, boy?”

“Thank God, I did not.”

“And this stupid old nigger hadn’t sense to call me!” (he turns threateningly to Bob):  “Well,—­must ’a drop’d off like the snuff of a tallow candle!”

Daddy knew master was a poor man now;—­calling would have availed nothing; gaolers are bad friends of poverty.

“Could you not have sent for me, good man?” enquires Franconia, her weeping eyes turning upon the warden, who says, by way of answering her question, “We must have him out o’ here.”

“I said mas’r was sicker den ye s’posed, yesterday; nor ye didn’t notice ’um!” interposes Bob, giving a significant look at the warden, and again at Franconia.

“What a shame, in this our land of boasted hospitality!  He died neglected in a prison cell!”

“Truth is, ma’am,” interrupts the warden, who, suddenly becoming conscious that it is polite to be courteous to ladies wherever they may be met, uncovers, and holds his hat in his hand,—­“we are sorely tried with black-vomit cases; no provision is made for them, and they die on our hands afore we know it, just like sheep with the rot.  It gives us a great deal of trouble;—­you may depend it does, ma’am; and not a cent extra pay do we get for it.  For my own part, I’ve become quite at home to dead men and prisoners.  My name is-you have no doubt heard of me before-John Lafayette Flewellen:  my situation was once, madam, that of a distinguished road contractor; and then they run me for the democratic senator from our district, and I lost all my money without getting the office-and here I am now, pestered with sick men and dead prisoners.  And the very worst is that ye can’t please nobody; but if anything is wanted, ma’am, just call for me:  John Lafayette Flewellen’s my name, ma’am.”  The man of nerve, with curious indifference, is about to turn away,—­to leave the mourning party to themselves, merely remarking, as he takes his hand from that of the corpse, that his limbs are becoming fridgid, fast.

“Stay-a-moment,—­warden,” says Franconia, sobbing:  “When was he seized with the fever?”

“Day afore yesterday, ma’am; but he didn’t complain until yesterday.  That he was in a dangerous way I’m sure I’d no idea.”  The warden shrugs his shoulders, and spreads his hands.  “My eyes, ma’am, but he drank strongly of late!  Perhaps that, combined with the fever, helped slide him off?”

“Ah! yes,—­it was something else-it was grief!  His troubles were his destroyer.”  She wipes her eyes, and, with a look of commiseration, turns from the man whose business it is to look coldly upon unfortunate dead men.

“There was the things you sent him, ma’am; and he got his gaol allowance, and some gruel.  The law wouldn’t allow us to do more for him,—­no, it wouldn’t!” He shakes his head in confirmation.