ked well and wholesome--holy, he thought. He
remembered to have heard some one say, at a Sunday meeting he happened
into once, years ago, that the word holiness meant health. He wondered
what it would be like, to be holy. He wondered what kinds of
people would be holy people, say, after a man was dead. Women, he
thought,--good women, and honest men who had never done a deadly deed.

He occupied his thoughts in this way. He looked often from the cold
stars to the warm lights throbbing in the town. They were both company
to him. He began to feel less alone. There was a special service
called somewhere in the city that night, to read the prayers for the
sick and dying. The wind rose feebly, and bore the sound of the
church-bells to the hut. There was a great deal of company, too, in
the bells. He remembered that it was Sunday night.

* * * * *

It was Monday, but no one came. It was Tuesday, but the nurse and the
plague still battled alone together over the negro. Zerviah's stock
of remedies was as ample as his skill. He had thought he should save
Scip. He worked without sleep, and the food was not clean. He lavished
himself like a lover over this black boatman; he leaned like a mother
over this man who had betrayed him.

But on Tuesday night, a little before midnight, Scip rose, struggling
on his wretched bed, and held up his hands and cried out:

"Mr. Hope! Mr. Hope! I never done mean to harm ye!"

"You have not harmed me," said Zerviah, solemnly. "Nobody ever harmed
me but myself. Don't mind me, Scip."

Scip put up his feeble hand; Zerviah took it; Scip spoke no more. The
nurse held the negro's hand a long time; the lamp went out; they sat
on in the dark. Through the flapping wooden shutter the stars looked
in.

Suddenly, Zerviah perceived that Scip's hand was quite cold.

* * * * *

He carried him out by starlight, and buried him under the palmetto. It
was hard work digging alone. He could not make a very deep grave, and
he had no coffin. When the earth was stamped down, he felt extremely
weary and weak. He fell down beside his shovel and pick to rest, and
lay there in the night till he felt stronger. It was damp and dark.
Shadows like clouds hung over the distant outline of the swamp.

The Sunday bells in the town had ceased. There were no sounds but the
cries of a few lonely birds and wild creatures of the night, whose
names he did not know. T