"Brother Walley, honey, I'se beginnin' to be 'fraid, arter all, dat dey tends for to hang us, sure 'nough! Dey wouldn't carry de nonsense dis far 'out dey did, would dey? 'Sides which, dey wouldn't go to de 'xpense o' coffins, would dey?" "No, Governor," said Valentine, going over and sitting down beside him, and taking his hand and continuing: "Governor, by this hour to-morrow you and I will be over all our earthly troubles." Slowly, slowly the truth was making its way to Governor's consciousness. His face clouded over, but he seemed to grow more stupid every instant. To all Valentine's speeches he answered never one word, not seeming to hear or to understand them. Dely could not bear this. Bursting into tears, she went and dropped upon her knees before Governor, and took his two hands in hers, and wept over them, and begged and prayed him, for his soul's sake, to listen to her words. Governor was only a recent acquaintance; he was not, as Valentine was, an old friend; yet it almost broke her gentle heart to see him thus--so stolid, so unconscious, so insensible. They were interrupted again, this time by a clergyman and one other gentleman, a member of the church. Dely was now obliged to return home. She took an affectionate leave of Valentine and of Governor, telling them that she should pray for them constantly, and that she should be on her knees, praying for them, in their last hour of trial. The minister found Valentine well prepared to meet his doom. But when he turned his attention to the other condemned man, he found, to his dismay, that he could not make the slightest impression upon Governor. The unhappy creature no longer doubted what his doom would be; but, as I said before, the truth very slowly entered his mind; and, alas! as it entered it seemed to press him down, and down, into deeper and more hopeless apathy, until at last he sat there silent, senseless, crushed. They could not pray with him; they could only pray for him. The next day, Christmas Eve, dawned brightly for almost all the world--darkly enough for the condemned. An early hour of the morning had been appointed for the farewell interview between the prisoners and their families. Such partings are always distressing beyond conception, and I shrink from the pain of saying much about them. Governor had but few friends, his fellow-slaves, who came over very early in the morning to take leave of him, and who, finding him so apathetic, went away comforted, with the belief "that Governor did not seem to mind it." His miserable wife came alone, to drop weeping at his feet, and implore his dying forgiveness for the part she had had in bringing him to this awful pass. Governor, partially aroused from his torpor, awoke sufficiently to put his arm around her shoulders, and say: "Don't cry, chile; I doesn't bear you no malice. You couldn't help it, chile, no more 'an I could; things was too much for us bofe. Don't cry; I loves you same as ever."