“Yes,—­dead!” she continues, sobbing audibly.  There is something touching in the words,—­something which recalls the dearest associations of the past, and touches the fountains of the heart.  It is the soft tone in which they are uttered,—­it gives new life to old images.  So forcibly are they called up, that the good woman has no power to resist her violent emotions:  gently she guides Franconia to the sofa, seats her upon its soft cushion, and attempts to console her wrecked spirit.

The men-servants are called up,—­told to be prepared for orders.  One of them recognises Daddy, and, inviting him into the pantry, would give him food, Trouble has wasted the old man’s appetite; he thinks of master, but has no will to eat.  No; he will see missus, and proceed back to the prison, there join Harry, and watch over all that is mortal of master.  He thanks Abraham for what he gave him, declines the coat he would kindly lend him to keep out the chill, seeks the presence of his mistress (she has become more reconciled), says, “God bless ’um!” bids her good night, and sallies forth.

Mrs. Rosebrook listens to the recital of the melancholy scene with astonishment and awe.  “How death grapples for us!” she exclaims, her soft, soul-beaming eyes glaring with surprise.  “How it cuts its way with edge unseen.  Be calm, be calm, Franconia; you have nobly done your part,—­nobly!  Whatever the pecuniary misfortunes,—­whatever the secret cause of his downfall, you have played the woman to the very end.  You have illustrated the purest of true affection; would it had repaid you better.  Before daylight-negroes are, in consequence of their superstition, unwilling to remove the dead at midnight-I will have the body removed here,—­buried from my house.”  The good woman did not disclose to Franconia that her husband was from home, making an effort to purchase Harry’s wife and children from their present owner.  But she will do all she can,—­the best can do no more.

At the gaol a different scene is presented.  Harry, alone with the dead man, waits Daddy’s return.  Each tap of the bell awakes a new hope, soon to be disappointed.  The clock strikes eleven:  no Daddy returns.  The gates are shut:  Harry must wile away the night, in this tomb-like abode, with the dead.  What stillness pervades the cell; how mournfully calm in death sleeps the departed!  The watcher has read himself to sleep; his taper, like life on its way, has nearly shed out its pale light; the hot breath of summer breathes balmy through the lattice bars; mosquitoes sing their torturous tunes while seeking for the dead man’s blood; lizards, with diamond eyes, crawl upon the wall, waiting their ration:  but death, less inexorable than creditors, sits pale king over all.  The palace and the cell are alike to him; the sharp edge of his unseen sword spares neither the king in his purple robe, nor the starving beggar who seeks a crust at his palace gate,—­of all places the worst.