"A common reality among the poor of the city, this dreadful season, sir. You know it. You have heard it and read it. And she is very poor, sir. She and the child often suffered, even before the pestilence came and stopped her work with all the rest. Judge what her condition must be now. Oh, my God!" cried the young man, in a voice of agony. "Your fears exaggerate the case, Valentine. There are almshouses and hospitals, and sisters of charity and relief funds, and all those sort of contrivances for the very poor." "Yet you know, for I heard you read it, that all these places are full, that the relief fund failed to meet all the demands made upon it; and you know, besides, that all the poor white people have to be taken care of, before the colored people are thought of." "Of course, there is a difference, you know. I wish, once for all, you would understand that fact," said Mr. Waring, replying only to the latter proposition. Then he added: "Your fears magnify the danger; the yellow fever cannot last forever, and she may get well." "Not one in ten do--I heard you say it." "Well, she may be that one." "What, sir, with all the privations of her lot?" "Yes, why not? You are out of sorts, Valentine. Go into the house and take a drink; it will set you up--in the dining-room--sideboard--left-hand corner--some fine old Otard brandy--help yourself; it will make a man of you." "Thank you, Master Oswald; but that is not what I came for." "What the devil did you come for, then, you troublesome fellow; tell me, and let me go to sleep," exclaimed the master, impatiently turning on his settee. "I came to beg and to pray you, Master Oswald, for a permit to go to town." "And you cannot have it, Valentine; so you may save your prayers. Once for all, if you and your mother, and madam, your mistress, to back you, were to pray from now till doomsday, you--cannot--have--it. Do you understand?" said his master, stolidly. Valentine governed his own rising anger; it was as much as he could possibly do; he could not suppress his grief, but broke forth in a voice of agony: "Oh! Fannie, Fannie, Fannie, and her little child!" "D----n it, sir, stop your howling, or go somewhere else to howl. What the devil is Fannie or her brat to me? If they are suffering, it is her own fault; she had no business to marry a slave, whom she could never expect to help her. And if their sufferings afflict you, it serves you right; it is a just punishment for your cursed folly in marrying a free woman, with no master to look after her or her children." "I will be silent! I will be silent!" thought Valentine, as he turned from his master.