he fire.

"I--I should like to smoke a pipe of Virginia" he groaned.

Gumbo burst into tears: he flung himself at Harry's knees. He kissed his
knees and his hands. "Oh, master, my dear master, what will they say at
home?" he sobbed out.

The jailor was touched at the sight of the black's grief and fidelity,
and at Harry's pale face as he sank back in his chair quite overcome and
beaten by his calamity.

"Your honour ain't eat anything these two days," the man said, in a
voice of rough pity. "Pluck up a little, sir. You aren't the first
gentleman who has been in and out of grief before this. Let me go down
and get you a glass of punch and a little supper."

"My good friend," said Harry, a sickly smile playing over his white
face, "you pay ready money for everything in this house, don't you? I
must tell you that I haven't a shilling left to buy a dish of meat. All
the money I have I want for letter-paper."

"Oh, master, my master!" roared out Gumbo. "Look here, my dear Master
Harry! Here's plenty of money--here's twenty-three five-guineas. Here's
gold moidore from Virginia--here--no, not that--that's keepsakes the
girls gave me. Take everything--everything. I go sell myself to-morrow
morning; but here's plenty for to-night, master!"

"God bless you, Gumbo!" Harry said, laying his hand on the lad's woolly
head. "You are free if I am not, and Heaven forbid I should not take the
offered help of such a friend as you. Bring me some supper: but the pipe
too, mind--the pipe too!" And Harry ate his supper with a relish: and
even the turnkeys and bailiff's followers, when Gumbo went out of the
house that night, shook hands with him, and ever after treated him well.

CHAPTER XLVII. Visitors in Trouble

Mr. Gumbo's generous and feeling conduct soothed and softened the angry
heart of his master, and Harry's second night in the spunging-house was
passed more pleasantly than the first. Somebody at least there was to
help and compassionate with him. Still, though softened in that one
particular spot, Harry's heart was hard and proud towards almost all
the rest of the world. They were selfish and ungenerous, he thought.
His pious Aunt Warrington, his lordly friend March, his cynical cousin
Castlewood,--all had been tried, and were found wanting. Not to avoid
twenty years of prison would he stoop to ask a favour of one of them
again. Fool that he had been, to believe in their promises, and confide
in their friendship! Th