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. The sheriff, insisting that it was his rule to make no distinction of persons, allowed prison cot and prison matress to which, by the kind permission of the warden, Franconia added sheets and a coverlit. Upon this, in a corner at the right, and opposite a spacious fire-place, in which are two bricks supporting a small iron kettle, lies the once opulent planter,—now with eyes glassy and discoloured, a ghastly corpse. His house once was famous for its princely hospitality,—the prison cot is not now his bequest: but it is all the world has left him on which to yield up his life. "Oh, uncle! uncle! uncle!" exclaims Franconia, who has been bathing his contorted face with her tears, "would that God had taken me too-buried our troubles in one grave! There is no trouble in that world to which he has gone: joy, virtue, and peace, reign triumphant there," she speaks, sighing, as she raises her bosom from off the dead man. Harry has touched her on the shoulder with his left hand, and is holding the dead man's with his right: he seems in deep contemplation. His mind is absorbed in the melancholy scene; but, though his affection is deep, he has no tears to shed at this moment. No; he will draw a chair for Franconia, and seat her near the head of the cot, for the fountains of her grief have overflown. Discoloured and contorted, what a ghastly picture the dead man's face presents! Glassy, and with vacant glare, those eyes, strange in death, seem wildly staring upward from earth. How unnatural those sunken cheeks—those lips wet with the excrement of black vomit—that throat reddened with the pestilential poison! "Call a warden, Daddy!" says Harry; "he has died of black vomit, I think." And he lays the dead body square upon the cot, turns the sheets from off the shoulders, unbuttons the collar of its shirt. "How changed! I never would have known master; but I can see something of him left yet." Harry remains some minutes looking upon the face of the departed, as if tracing some long lost feature. And then he takes his hands-it's master's hand, he says-and places them gently to his sides, closes his glassy eyes, wipes his mouth and nostrils, puts his ear to the dead man's mouth, as if doubting the all-slayer's possession of the body, and with his right hand parts the matted hair from off the cold brow. What a step between the cares of the world and the peace of death! Harry smooths, and smooths, and smooths his forehead with his hand; until at length his feelings get the better of his resolution; he will wipe the dewy tears from his eyes. "Don't weep, Miss Franconia,—don't weep! master is happy with Jesus,—happier than all the plantations and slaves of the world could make him" he says, turning to her as she sits weeping, her elbow resting on the cot, and her face buried in her handkerchief.

"Bad job this here!" exclaims the warden, as he comes lumbering into the cell, his face flushed with anxiety. "This yaller-fever beats everything: but he hasn't been well for some time," he continues, advancing to the bed-side, looking on the deceased for a few minutes, and then, as if it were a part of his profession to look on dead men, says: "How strange to die out so soon!"

"He was a good master," rejoins Harry.

"He wasn't your master-Was he?" enquires the gaoler, in gruff accents.

"Once he was."

"But, did you see him die, boy?"

"Thank God, I did not."

"And this stupid old nigger hadn't sense to call me!" (he turns threateningly to Bob): "Well,—must 'a drop'd off like the snuff of a tallow candle!"

Daddy knew master was a poor man now;—calling would have availed nothing; gaolers are bad friends of poverty.

"Could you not have sent for me, good man?" enquires Franconia, her weeping eyes turning upon the warden, who says, by way of answering her question, "We must have him out o' here."

"I said mas'r was sicker den ye s'posed, yesterday; nor ye didn't notice 'um!" interposes Bob, giving a significant look at the warden, and again at Franconia.

"What a shame, in this our land of boasted hospitality! He died neglected in a prison cell!"

"Truth is, ma'am," interrupts the warden, who, suddenly becoming conscious that it is polite to be courteous to ladies wherever they may be met, uncovers, and holds his hat in his hand,—"we are sorely tried with black-vomit cases; no provision is made for them, and they die on our hands afore we know it, just like sheep with the rot. It gives us a great deal of trouble;—you may depend it does, ma'am; and not a cent extra pay do we get for it. For my own part, I've become quite at home to dead men and prisoners. My name is-you have no doubt heard of me before-John Lafayette Flewellen: my situation was once, madam, that of a distinguished road contractor; and then they run me for the democratic senator from our district, and I lost all my money without getting the office-and here I am now, pestered with sick men and dead prisoners. And the very worst is that ye can't please nobody; but if anything is wanted, ma'am, just call for me: John Lafayette Flewellen's my name, ma'am." The man of nerve, with curious indifference, is about to turn away,—to leave the mourning party to themselves, merely remarking, as he takes his hand from that of the corpse, that his limbs are becoming fridgid, fast.

"Stay-a-moment,—warden," says Franconia, sobbing: "When was he seized with the fever?"

"Day afore yesterday, ma'am; but he didn't complain until yesterday. That he was in a dangerous way I'm sure I'd no idea." The warden shrugs his shoulders, and spreads his hands. "My eyes, ma'am, but he drank strongly of late! Perhaps that, combined with the fever, helped slide him off?"

"Ah! yes,—it was something else-it was grief! His troubles were his destroyer." She wipes her eyes, and, with a look of commiseration, turns from the man whose business it is to look coldly upon unfortunate dead men.

"There was the things you sent him, ma'am; and he got his gaol allowance, and some gruel. The law wouldn't allow us to do more for him,—no, it wouldn't!" He shakes his head in confirmation.

"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!"

The warden, moved by the spark of generosity his soul possesses, has brought some cologne, and silently places it in Franconia's hands. She advances to the cot, seats herself near the head of her dear departed, encircles his head with her left arm, and with her white 'kerchief bathes his face with the liquid, Harry holding the vessel in his hand, at her request. A candle sheds its sickly light upon the humid walls; faintly it discloses the face of Daddy Bob, immersed in tears, watching intently over the foot of the cot. "Missus Frankone is alw's kind to mas'r!"

"I loved uncle because his heart was good," returns Franconia.

"'Tis dat, missus. How kindly old mas'r, long time ago, used to say, 'Good mornin', Bob! Daddy, mas'r lubs you!"

How firmly the happy recollection of these kind words is sealed in the old man's memory.