"Go, woman, bring him!" he whispers again.
Almost motionless the woman stands. She has seen the little book-she
knows it, and her eyes wander over the inscription on the cover. A
deep blush shadows her countenance; she fixes her piercing black
eyes upon it until they seem melting into sadness; with a delicacy
and reserve at variance with her menial condition, she approaches
the bed, lays her hand upon the book, and, while the physician's
attention is attracted in another direction, closes its pages, and
is about to depart.
"Can you tell which one he wants, girl?" enquires the physician, in
a stern voice.
"His name, I think, is Harry; and they say the poor thing can
preach; forgive me what I have done to him, oh Lord! It is the
weakness of man grasping the things of this world, to leave behind
for the world's nothingness," says Mr. M'Fadden, as the woman leaves
the room giving an affirmative reply.
The presence of the Bible surprised the woman; she knew it as the
one much used by Harry, on Marston's plantation. It was Franconia's
gift! The associations of the name touched the chord upon which hung
the happiest incidents of her life. Retracing her steps down the
stairs, she seeks mine host of the tavern, makes known the demand,
and receives the keys of this man-pen of our land of liberty.
Lantern in hand, she soon reaches the door, unlocks it gently, as if
she expects the approach of some strange object, and fears a sudden
surprise.
There the poor dejected wretches lay; nothing but earth's surface
for a bed,--no blanket to cover them.
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