"Well, Tom, as women can't vote, and have no right to order negroes, what course would you advise Jube to take?"
"Cut, doctor; that's what I'd do in this case!"
"Well, if he wants to cut, and has the money to afford it, I don't see the harm."
"You don't? Hurrah, Jube! You don't?—that's enough. Good-by, doctor."
Away the lad rushed, and sprang with a bound into the wagon.
"Come, Jube—hurry up. I've got something splendid to say to you. Jump in, and I don't mind driving you over the hill. Chirk up, old fellow, we'll be after him yet, but I'll think it over till morning."
Jube obeyed this boisterous summons, and climbed into the wagon.
The next day, Mrs. Allen left her house, and took up her lonely abode in New Haven. Old Mr. Thrasher went with her, leaving his wife behind for a few days, when she too would give up her home. Jube was left alone in the house, alone in the cruel cold, so heartbroken and desolate that he had not sufficient energy to build a fire, or cook necessary food. Tom was right—a few weeks of this life would have killed the noble fellow outright. On the third day after Paul left, he was sitting drearily on the hearth, with his feet in the ashes, when Tom came in.
"Just as I expected," he said, dropping into Mrs. Allen's high-backed chair. "Down in the mouth—clean give up—not worth salt."
Jube did not speak, but sat supporting his head with both hands, looking gloomily into the ashes.