“Abigail Birch, born July 12th, 1757,” continued the housekeeper, in the same tone.
“I t’ink he ought to gib her ’e spoon.”
“June 1st, 1760. On this awful day, the judgment of an offended God lighted on my house.” A heavy groan from the adjoining room made the spinster instinctively close the volume, and Caesar, for a moment, shook with fear. Neither possessed sufficient resolution to go and examine the condition of the sufferer, but his heavy breathing continued as usual. Katy dared not, however, reopen the Bible, and carefully securing its clasps, it was laid on the table in silence. Caesar took his chair again, and after looking timidly round the room, remarked,—
“I t’ought he time war’ come!”
“No,” said Katy, solemnly, “he will live till the tide is out, or the first cock crows in the morning.”
“Poor man!” continued the black, nestling still farther into the chimney corner, “I hope he lay quiet after he die.”
“’Twould be no astonishment to me if he didn’t; for they say an unquiet life makes an uneasy grave.”
“Johnny Birch a berry good man in he way. All mankind can’t be a minister; for if he do, who would be a congregation?”
“Ah! Caesar, he is good only who does good. Can you tell me why honestly gotten gold should be hidden in the bowels of the earth?”
“Grach!—I t’ink it must be to keep t’e Skinner from findin’ him; if he know where he be, why don’t he dig him up?”