The physician understands, puts his hand into the pocket; draws forth the little boon companion. It is the Bible, book of books; its great truths have borne Harry through many trials,--he hopes it will be his shield and buckler to carry him through many more. Its associations are as dear to him as its teachings are consoling in the days of tribulation. It is dear to him, because the promptings of a noble-hearted woman secretly entrusted it to his care, in violation of slavery's statutes. Its well-worn pages bear testimony of the good service it has done. It was Franconia's gift-Franconia, whose tender emotions made her the friend of the slave-made in the kindness of woman's generous nature. The good example, when contrasted with the fierce tenor of slavery's fears, is worthy many followers. But men seldom profit by small examples, especially when great fears are paramount. The physician, holding the good book in his hand, enquires if Mr. M'Fadden would have him read from it? He has no answer to make, turns his feverish face from it, closes his eyes, and compressing his forehead with his hands, mutely shakes his head. A minute or two passes in silence; he has re-considered the point,--answers, no! He wants Harry brought to him, that he may acknowledge his crimes; that he may quench the fire of unhappiness burning within him. "How seldom we think of death while in life,--and how painful to see death while gathering together the dross of this worldly chaos! Great, great, great is the reward of the good, and mighty is the hand of Omnipotence that, holding the record of our sins, warns us to prepare." As Mr. M'Fadden utters these words, a coloured woman enters the room to enquire if the patient wants nourishment. She will wait at the door. The physician looks at the patient; the patient shakes his head and whispers, "Only the boy. The boy I bought to-day." The Bible lays at his side on the sheet. He points to it, again whispering, "The boy I took it from!" The boy, the preacher, Mr. M'Fadden's purchase, can read; she will know him by that; she must bring him from the shed, from his cold bed of earth. That crime of slavery man wastes his energies to make right, is wrong in the sight of heaven; our patient reads the glaring testimony as the demons of his morbid fancy haunt him with their damning terrors, their ghastly visages. "Go, woman, bring him!" he whispers again. Almost motionless the woman stands. She has seen the little book-she knows it, and her eyes wander over the inscription on the cover. A deep blush shadows her countenance; she fixes her piercing black eyes upon it until they seem melting into sadness; with a delicacy and reserve at variance with her menial condition, she approaches the bed, lays her hand upon the book, and, while the physician's attention is attracted in another direction, closes its pages, and is about to depart. "Can you tell which one he wants, girl?" enquires the physician, in a stern voice.