"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.