table and was leaving the room,
when Ishmael recalled him. What I am about to relate is a trifle
perhaps, but it will serve to show the perfect beauty of that nature
which, in the midst of its own great sorrow, could think of the small
wants of another.

"Jim, you asked me this morning to write a letter for you, to your
mother, I think."

"Yes, Master Ishmael, I thank you, sir; whenever you is at leisure, sir,
with nothing to do; which I wouldn't presume to be in a hurry, sir, nor
likewise inconvenience you the least in the world."

"It will not inconvenience me, Jim; it will give me pleasure, whenever
you can spare me half an hour," replied Ishmael, speaking with as much
courtesy to the poor dependent as he would have used in addressing his
wealthiest patron.

"Well, Master Ishmael, which I ought to say Mr. Worth, and I beg your
pardon, sir, only it is the old love as makes me forget myself, and call
you what I used to in the old days, because Mr. Worth do seem to leave
me so far away--"

"Call me what you please, Jim, we are old friends, and I love my old
friends better than any new distinctions that could come between us, but
which I will never allow to separate us. What were you about to say,
Jim?"

"Well, Master Ishmael, and I thank you sincere, sir, for letting of me
call you so, I was going for to say, as I could be at your orders any
time, even now, if it would suit you, sir; because I have lighted up all
my rooms and set my table for dinner, which it is put back an hour
because of Master Walter, who is expected by the six o'clock train this
evening; and Sam is waiting in the hall, and I aint got anything very
partic'lar to do for the next hour or so."

"Very well, Jim; sit down in that chair and tell me what you want me to
write," said Ishmael, seating himself before his desk and dipping his
pen in ink.

Yes, it was a small matter in itself; but it was characteristic of the
man, thus to put aside his own poignant anguish to interest himself in
the welfare of the humblest creature who invoked his aid.

"Now then, Jim."

"Well, Master Ishmael," said the poor fellow. "You know what to say a
heap better'n I do. Write it beautiful, please."

"Tell me what is in your heart, Jim, and then I will do the best I can,"
said Ishmael, who possessed the rare gift of drawing out from others the
best that was in their thoughts.

"Well, sir, I think a heap o' my ole mother, I does; 'membering how she
did foh me