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“Here you are? Where? You black sarpint, come here; go to Jackplane, the carpenter, and tell him to come here and make my sashes tight, d’ye hear?”

“Yis, massa, dem’s ’em; I’se off.”

“No, you ain’t–come here, Banquo, you woolly son of Congo, you; go open my liquor case, bring the brandy and some cool water. There, now clear yourself.”

“Yis, massa, I’se gone, dis time–“

“No, you ain’t, come back; go to old Joe Winepipes, and tell him I send my compliments to him, and if he wants to continue that game of chess, let him come over this afternoon, d’ye hear?”

“Yis, massa, dem’s ’em, I’se gone dis time– shuah! “

“Well, away with you.”

Old Job Carson was yet a rugged looking old gentleman. He had survived nearly all his “blood, kith and kin;” his sister had paid the last debt of nature some months before, and in hopes of finding some one to fill her station, in his domestic concerns, his advertisement had appeared in the Weekly Bulletin.

“Ah, me, it’s no use crying about spilt milk,” sighed the old gent over his glass. “I suppose I’ve been a fool; out-lived everybody, everything useful to me. Made a fortune first, nobody to spend it last. Yes, yes,” continued the old man, in a thoughtful strain, “old Job Carson will soon slip off the handle; ‘poor old devil,’ some bloodsucker may say, as he grabs Job’s worldly effects, ‘he’s gone, had a hard scrabble to get together these things, and now, we’ll pick his bones.’ Well, let ’em, let ’em; serves me right; ought to have known it before, but blast and rot ’em, if they only enjoy the pillage as much as I did the struggles to keep it together, why, a–it will be about an even thing with us, after all.”

“Yis, massa, here I is,” chuckled Banquo, again putting his black bullet pate in at the door.

“You are, eh? Well, clear yourself–no, come back; go down to Oatmeal’s store, and tell him to let old Mrs. Dougherty, and the old blind man, and the sailor’s wife, and–and–the rest of them, have their groceries, again, this week–only another week, mind, for I’m not going to support the whole neighborhood any longer–tell him so.”

“Yis, massa, I’se gone.”

“Wait, come here, Banquo; well, never mind–clear out.”

But Banquo returned in a moment, saying:

“Dar’s a lady at the doo-ah, sah; says she wants to see you, sah, ’bout ‘ticlar business, sah.”

“Is, eh? Well, call her into the parlor, I’ll be down–ah-h, that infernal twinge again, ah-h-h-h, ah-h! What a stupid ass a man is to hang around in this world until he’s a nuisance to himself and every body else!” grunted old Job, as he groped his way down stairs, and into the parlor.

“Good morning, ma’am,” said he, as he confronted the widow, who, in the utmost taste of simple neatness, had arranged her spare dress, to meet the umpire of her future fate.

Mrs. Glenn respectfully acknowledged the salutation, and at once opened her business to the bluff old man.

“Yes, yes; I’m a poor, unfortunate creature, ma’am; I’m nothing, nobody, any more. I want somebody to see that I’m not robbed, or poisoned, and that I may have a bed to lie upon, and a clean piece of linen to my back occasionally, and a–that’s all I want, ma’am.”

The widow feigned to hope she knew the duties of a housekeeper, and situated as she was, it was a labor of love to work–toil, for those misfortune had placed in her charge.

“Eh? what’s that–haven’t got incumbrances, have you, ma’am?”

“I have three children, sir,” meekly said the widow.

“Three children?” gruffly responded the old gentleman; “ah, umph, what business have you, ma’am, with three children?”

The widow, not apparently able to answer such a poser, the old gentleman continued:

“Poor widows, poor people of any kind, have no business with incumbrances, ma’am; no excuse at all, ma’am, for ’em.”