“I wanted old mas’r to let ’um bring doctor; but he said no! he would meet de doctor what cured all diseases in another world,” interrupts old Bob, as he draws his seat close to the foot of the cot, and, with his shining face of grief, gazes on the pale features of his beloved master.

“Let him lie as he is, till the coroner comes,” says the warden, retiring slowly, and drawing the heavy door after him.

The humble picture was no less an expression of goodness, than proof of the cruel severity of the law.  The news of death soon brought curious debtors into the long aisle, while sorrow and sympathy might be read on every face.  But he was gone, and with him his wants and grievances.  A physician was called in, but he could not recall life, and, after making a few very learned and unintelligible remarks on the appearance of the body, took his departure, saying that they must not grieve-that it was the way all flesh would go.  “He, no doubt, died of the black vomit, hastened by the want of care,” he concluded, as he left the cell.

“Want of care!” rejoins Franconia, again giving vent to her feelings.  How deeply did the arrow dart into the recesses of her already wounded heart!

Mr. Moon, the methodical coroner, was not long repairing to the spot.  He felt, and felt, and felt the dead man’s limbs, asked a few questions, bared the cold breast, ordered the body to be straightened a little, viewed it from several angles, and said an inquest was unnecessary.  It would reveal no new facts, and, as so many were dying of the same disease, could give no more relief to his friends.  Concerning his death, no one could doubt the cause being black vomit.  With a frigid attempt at consolation for Franconia, he will withdraw.  He has not been long gone, when the warden, a sheet over his left arm, again makes his appearance; he passes the sheet to Harry, with a request that he will wind the dead debtor up in it.

Franconia, sobbing, rises from her seat, opens a window at the head of the cot (the dead will not escape through the iron grating), and paces the floor, while Harry and Daddy sponge the body, lay it carefully down, and fold it in the winding-sheet.  “Poor master,—­God has taken him; but how I shall miss him!  I’ve spent happy days wid ’im in dis place, I have!” says Bob, as they lay his head on the hard pillow.  He gazes upon him with affection,—­and says “Mas’r ’ll want no more clothes.”

And now night is fast drawing its dark mantle over the scene,—­the refulgent shadows of the setting sun play through the grated window into the gloomy cell:  how like a spirit of goodness sent from on high to lighten the sorrows of the downcast, seems the light.  A faint ray plays its soft tints on that face now pallid in death; how it inspires our thoughts of heaven!  Franconia watches, and watches, as fainter and fainter it fades away, like an angel sent for the spirit taking its departure.  “Farewell!” she whispers, as darkness shuts out the last mellow glimmer:  “Come sombre night, and spread thy stillness!”