“My wife—my child! See that no wrong is done them.” The old man looked down upon that ashen face with surprise. “This must be delirium,” he thought, “for my poor master had neither wife nor child.” The eyes of the dying man were misty, but he saw the doubt in his servant’s face. A look of distress passed over his own, and he made a vain effort to collect the power of speech. But he could only say, “The will—that must tell you—it is below, take it into your own hands the moment I am dead; and take it to—to—” “To Master Ross?” said the old man, observing that his master’s voice was sinking. “No! no!” These words broke from the dying man with his last breath; he fell back upon the pillow; his hands wandered upward for an instant, and then fell heavily upon the bed. Still his eyes were open—still they were fixed with mournful intensity on the old man’s face. “He is gone!” murmured Ross, bending his ashen face over the ashen face of the dead. “He is gone!” cried the poor old servant, wringing his hands and sobbing aloud; “he is gone, and without taking the old man with him!” Then the faithful old creature cast himself upon his knees, and taking the pale hand of the dead between his ebony palms, lifted up his voice and wept. While the voice of his grief filled the room, while his faithful heart seemed pouring itself out in tears, Ross turned softly and stole from the room. A few brief minutes the old negro gave to his sorrow. Then amid his tears he remembered the last words of the dead. He did but pause to close, with reverent hands, the eyes that still seemed regarding him with earnest command. He did but compose the lifeless limbs, and draw the sheet over those loved features, before he went down to obey the last behest of the dead. The poor old man went forth from the deathchamber, guided by the gray dawn. His tread was slow and mournful. You could scarcely hear him as he passed along, for it seemed to him that the faintest sound might disturb his master.