ace!" says the youth.

"But a'n't you ashamed to live with niggers?"

"Ashamed? What for? Nobody else was good to me. But they was good to me.
I a'n't ashamed."

The Frisbie color heightens more and more. He looks at that wretched
dwelling,--he glances aside at Mr. Williams, that coal-black Christian,
of sad and resigned demeanor, waiting ruefully to see the roof torn
off,--the only roof that had afforded shelter to the perishing outcast.
Mr. Frisbie is not one of the "soft kind," but he feels the prick of
conscience in his heart.

"Why didn't you go to the poor-house? Didn't anybody tell you to?"

"Yes, that's what they said. But nobody showed me the way, and I
couldn't find it."

"Where did you come from? Who are you?"

"Fessenden's."

"Who is Fessenden?"

"The man that owns me. But he whipped me and shet me up, and I wouldn't
stay."

"Where does he live?"

"Don't know. Away off."

"You'd better go back to him, hadn't you?"

"No! I like these folks. Best folks I ever seen!" avers the earnest
youth.

Flush and confusion are in the rich man's face. He turns up an uneasy
glance at Adsly's men, already on the roof; then coughs, and says to
Stephen,--

"This is interesting!"

"Very," says Stephen.

"Don't you remember, _I_ was going to make some provision for this
fellow,--I'd have seen him safe in the almshouse, if nothing more,--but
you suggested Gingerford's."

"I supposed Gingerford would be delighted to take him in," grins
Stephen.

"Instead of that, he turns him out in the storm! Did you ever hear of
such sham philanthropy? By George!" cries Frisbie, in his indignation
against the Judge, "there's more real philanthropy in these
niggers"----checking himself, and glancing again at the workmen on the
roof.

"What's philanthropy?" asks Fessenden's. "Is that what you're tearin'
their house down for? I'm sorry!"

Frisbie is flustered. He is ashamed of appearing "soft." He wishes
heartily to be well rid of the niggers. But something in his own heart
rebels against the course he has taken to eject them.

"Just hold on there a minute, Adsly!"

"Ay, ay!" says Adsly. And the work stops.

"Now what do I do this for?" exclaims Frisbie, vexed at himself the
instant he has spoken. And he frowns, and blows his nose furiously.
"It's because I am too good-natured, altogether!"

"No, no, Sir,--I beg your pardon!" says Mr. Williams, his heart all
aglow with gratitude. "To be kind and merciful to the