“He must have been a fine-looking fellow in his day!” he said, more to himself than to her.  “But he has lived fast, burned himself up alive with liquor.”

“I didn’t call nobody, sir, to help me, ’cause nobody couldn’t do no good, and I was afeared of wakin’ the gentlemen and ladies, a trottin’ up and downstairs,” continued Phillis, bent upon exculpating herself from all blame in the affair, and mistaking his momentary pensiveness for displeasure.

“You were quite right, old lady!  All the doctors and medicines in the world could not have pulled him through after the drink and the snow had had their way with him for so many hours—­poor devil!  Well!  I’ll go back to bed now, and finish my morning nap.”

He was at the threshold when he bethought himself of a final injunction.

“You had better keep an eye upon these things, Aunty!” pointing to the coat and other garments she had ranged upon chairs to dry in front of the fire.  “There will be a coroner’s inquest, I suppose, and there may be papers in his pockets which will tell who he was and where he belonged.  When you are through in here, lock the door and take out the key—­and if you can help it, don’t let a whisper of this get abroad before breakfast.  It will spoil the ladies’ appetites.  If anybody asks how he is, say ‘a little better.’  He can’t be worse off than he was in life, let him be where he may.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Phillis, in meek obedience.  “But I don’t think he was the kind his folks would care to keep track on, nor the sort that carries valeyble papers ’round with ’em.”

“I reckon you are not far out of the way there!” laughed the doctor, subduedly, lest the echo in the empty hall might reach the sleepers on the second floor, and he ran lightly down the garret steps.

The inquest sat that afternoon.  It was a leisure season with planters, and a jury was easily collected by special messengers—­twelve jolly neighbors, who were not averse to the prospect of a glass of Mrs. Sutton’s famous egg-nogg, and a social smoke around the fire in the great dining-room, even though these were prefaced by ten minutes’ solemn discussion over the remains of the nameless wayfarer.

His shirt was marked with some illegible characters, done in faded ink, which four of the jury spelled out as “James Knowlton,” three others made up into “Jonas Lamson,” and the remaining five declined deciphering at all.  Upon one sock were the letters “R.  M.” upon the fellow, “G.  B.”  With these unavailable exceptions, there was literally no clue to his name, profession, or residence, to be gathered from his person or apparel.  The intelligent jury brought in a unanimous verdict—­“Name unknown.  Died from the effects of drink and exposure;” the foreman pulled the sheet again over the blank, chalky face, and the shivering dozen wound their way to the warmer regions, where the expected confection awaited them.