"Cuss him imperence!" it said; "him neber satisfied. I broke my heart, sar, in your service, and d—n him—no gratitude."
"Don't you turn against me, too," answered a feeble voice, like that of a sick man. "I shall be well again soon, and we will push on, and meet them at Marseilles."
"Push on! I don't understand 'push on,' when fellow's not got half-penny in the pocket. Stuck to you like a trump all my life; it's not the ting to bring respectable character into dis 'ere difficulty."
"Give me something to drink."
"What you like, old genl'man?" was the answer. "Course you call for what you please—you got sich lots of money. You have any kind of water you think proper—from ditch water up to pump."
"You are sure there were no letters for me at the post?" inquired the feeble voice.
"Come, stop dat, if you please. That joke's damned stale and aggravating. Whenever I ask you for money, you send me to the post. What de devil postman see in my face to give me money?"
Elinor knocked again and again; still unanswered, she opened the door. In the apartment which she entered, she perceived, grinning out of the window, with his broad arms stretched under his black face, the nigger of our early acquaintance—the old servant of her father's house—the gentleman who had represented the yahoo upon the evening of my introduction to the general—the fascinating Augustus. Behind him, on a couch that was drawn close to the wall, and surmounted by a dingy drapery, lay—her father—a shadow of his former self—miserably attired, and very ill, as it would seem, mentally and bodily. Both the yahoo and the general started upon her entrance, for which they were evidently wholly unprepared.
"Elinor!" said the general, "you have received my letter?"
"I have," was the reply—scarcely heard—with such deep emotion was it spoken!