Now, distracted between joy at meeting
Harry, and sorrow for the death of master, the poor old man is lost
in the confusion of his feelings. After saluting Franconia, he
turned to Harry, threw his arms around his neck, buried his head in
his bosom, and wept like a child. "Home-home again,--my Harry! but
too late to see mas'r," he says, as the fountains of his soul give
out their streams.
"We must all go where master has gone," returns Harry, as he, more
calm, fondles the old man, and endeavours to reconcile his feelings.
"Sit there, my old friend-sit there; and remember that God called
master away. I must go to his bed-side," whispers Harry, seating the
old man on a block of wood near the foot of the cot, where he pours
forth the earnest of his grief.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
AN ITEM IN THE COMMON CALENDAR.
THUS painfully has Marston paid his debtors. Around his lifeless
body may spring to life those sympathies which were dead while he
lived; but deplorings fall useless on dead men. There is one
consideration, however, which must always be taken into account; it
is, that while sympathy for the living may cost something, sympathy
for the dead is cheap indeed, and always to be had. How simply plain
is the dead man's cell! In this humid space, ten by sixteen feet,
and arched over-head, is a bucket of water, with a tin cup at the
side, a prison tub in one corner, two wooden chairs, a little deal
stand, (off which the prisoner ate his meals), and his trunk of
clothing.
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