Then the long-fought choke in his throat strangled him. “Take them away, Todd,” he said in a husky voice, straightening his shoulders as if the better to get his breath, and with a deep indrawn sigh walked slowly into his bedroom and shut the door behind him. Half an hour later there followed a short note, written on one of his few remaining sheets of English paper, addressed to the new owner, in which he informed that gentleman that he bespoke for his late companions the same care and attention which he had always given them himself, and which they so richly deserved, and which he felt sure they would continue to receive while in the service of his esteemed and honored correspondent. This he sealed in wax and stamped with his crest; and this was duly delivered by Todd--and so the painful incident had come to an end. The dogs disposed of, there still remained to him another issue to meet--the wages he owed Jemima. Although she had not allowed the subject to pass her lips--not even to Todd--St. George knew that she needed the money--she being a free woman and her earnings her own--not a master's. He had twice before determined to set aside enough money from former cash receipts to liquidate Jemima's debt--once from the proceeds of Gadgem's gun and again from what Floyd paid him for the dogs--but Todd had insisted with such vehemence that he needed it for the marketing, that he had let it go over. The one remaining object of real value was the famous loving-cup. With this turned into money he would be able to pay Jemima in full. For days he debated the matter with himself, putting the question in a dozen different lights: it was not really HIS cup, but belonged to the family, he being only its custodian; it would reflect on his personal honor if he traded so distinguished a gift--one marking the esteem in which his dead father had been held, etc. Then the round, good-natured face and bent figure of his old stand-by and comfort--who had worked for him and for his father almost all her life--rose before him, she bending over her tubs earning the bread to keep her alive, and with this picture in his mind all his fine-spun theories vanished into thin air. Todd was summoned and thus the last connecting link between the past and present was broken and the precious heirloom turned over to Kirk, the silversmith, who the next day found a purchaser with one of the French secretaries in Washington, a descendant of the marquis. With the whole of the purchase money in his hands and his mind firmly made up he rang for his servant: “Come along, Todd--show me where Aunt Jemima lives--it's somewhere down by the market, I hear--I'm going now.” The darky's face got as near white as his skin would allow: this was the last thing he had expected. “Dat ain't no fit place for ye, Marse George,” he stammered. “I'll go an' git her an' bring her up; she tol' me when I carried dat las' washin' down she wuz a-comin' dis week.”