And Tom walked out quietly and solemnly, but a free man yet. But the case never came to a trial again. Tom was not himself from that day on. He was sobered, subdued, crushed. He seemed to think “Marse John had gone back on him.” He quit drinking, fighting, and disputing on things religious. He even quit telling his experience “endurin’ de wah,” and, more wonderful still, he actually went to work. All this was too much for him. As the day approached for the trial he became melancholy, morbid, and finally took to his bed in earnest. At first they thought he would get up soon, but he grew rapidly worse; and a week before the trial, the doctor said that Tom would never “furage” again. The old Judge was holding court in another county, and had not heard of Tom’s sickness. He promptly called the case in its order on the docket. Tom’s lawyer read the physician’s certificate as to Tom’s condition. The old Judge looked worried—even troubled. Then he glanced around the court—the major was not there. He took up his pen and wrote quickly across the docket: “Case nolle prossed; no prosecutor!” and as soon as the court adjourned he went by Tom’s cabin to see if he wanted anything, and to tell him about the nol prossing his case. As he neared the cabin he heard the uncanny music of the negro mourning song, and it startled him as he went in and found them chanting it around Tom’s bed. He looked at Tom; he was sober, but dying. The old Judge went up, sat by the bed, and took Tom tenderly by the hand. The negro’s face lit up for a moment with its old-time light as he recognized the old Judge. Then he remembered: “Will dey try me ergin; will dey convict de old man ergin, Marse John?” eagerly asked Tom. “Not while I am Judge of this circuit, Tom—never!” as he gripped Tom’s hand. “Thang Gord, Marse John! thang Gord! I knew you—wouldn’t! You see I—wus—jes’ furagin’! The majuh knowed it—jes’ furagin’.” He was quiet a little and dozed some. Then he sprang half-way up in bed—a startled look in his eye: “Lemme out! lemme out!” he cried. “Don’t you hear it, Marse John? Dat’s taps—de army ob de Tennessee am sleepin’—de lights mos’ out—I must hustle an’ git sumpin’ to eat—I mus’ furage—gwine on er long furage—but I’ll wait—on—you—foreber—in—de—camp—dar, Marse John——.” He broke off suddenly; a radiant light gleamed in his eyes; “Miss Mary, my mistis; O dar she am, beckinin’ an’ smilin’ to po’ ole Tom; beckinin’ an’ smilin’, ‘Gord will reward—you—sum—day!’ Oh, home, home, Marse John!” Two hours later the old Judge came out of Tom’s cabin, crying like a boy. Tom had gone on his last “furage.” Old Casey, the Fifer By HENRY EWELL HORD