The doctor arrested her hand when she would have covered the face.

"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.




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