k.

"It's deadly poison," was the answer.

Mark showed no more uneasiness than if it had been commended to him as
ambrosia; but he gave the man his arm, and as they went along explained
the nature of their purchase, and inquired where it lay. Close to his
own log-house, he said.

It was a miserable cabin, rudely constructed of the trunks of trees, the
door of which had either fallen down or been carried away. When they had
brought up their chest, Martin gave way, and lay down on the ground, and
wept aloud.

"Lord love you, sir," cried Mr. Tapley. "Don't do that. Anything but
that! It never helped man, woman, or child over the lowest fence yet,
sir, and it never will."

Mark stole out gently in the morning while his companion slept, and took
a rough survey of the settlement. There were not above a score of cabins
in the whole, and half of these appeared untenanted. Their own land was
mere forest. He went down to the landing-place, where they had left
their goods, and there he found some half a dozen men, wan and forlorn,
who helped him to carry them to the log-house.

Martin was by this time stirring, but he had greatly changed, even in
one night. He was very pale and languid, and spoke of pains and
weakness.

"Don't give in, sir," said Mr. Tapley. "Why, you must be ill. Wait half
a minute, till I run up to one of our neighbours and find out what's
best to be took."

Martin was soon dangerously ill, very near his death. Mark, fatigued in
mind and body, working all the day and sitting up at night, worn by hard
living, surrounded by dismal and discouraging circumstances, never
complained or yielded in the least degree. And then, when Martin was
better, Mark was taken ill. He fought against it; but the malady fought
harder, and his efforts were vain.

"Floored for the present, sir," he said one morning, sinking back upon
his bed, "but jolly."

And now it was Martin's turn to work and sit beside the bed and watch,
and listen through the long, long nights to every sound in the gloomy
wilderness.

Martin's reflections in those days slowly showed him his own
selfishness, and when Mark Tapley recovered, he found a singular
alteration in his companion.

"I don't know what to make of him," he thought one night. "He don't
think of himself half as much as he did. It's a swindle. There'll be no
credit in being jolly with _him_!"

The settlement was deserted. The only thing to be done was to return to
England.