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“Well, Tom haven’t I been? Come, now, what do you want? There’s some- thing you haven’t got, I suppose, and this is the preface.” “Mas’r allays been good to me. I haven’t nothing to complain of, on that head. But there is one that Mas’r isn’t good to.” “Why, Tom, what’s got into you? Speak out; what do you mean?” “Last night, between one and two, I thought so. I studied upon the matter then. Mas’r isn’t good to himself.” Tom said this with his back to his master, and his hand on the door-knob. St. Clare felt his face flush crimson, but he laughed. “O, that’s all, is it?” he said gayly. “All!” said Tom, turning suddenly round, and falling on his knees. “O, my dear young Mas’r! I’m ‘fraid it will be loss of all-all-body and soul. The good Book says, ‘it biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an adder!’ my dear Mas’r!” Tom’s voice choked, and the tears ran down his cheeks. “You poor, silly fool!” said St. Clare, with tears in his own eyes. “Get up, Tom. I’m not worth crying over.” But Tom wouldn’t rise, and looked imploring. “Well, I won’t go to any more of their cursed nonsense, Tom,” said St. Clare; “on my honor, I won’t. I don’t know why I haven’t stopped long ago. I’ve always despised it, and myself for it,- so now, Tom, wipe up your eyes, and go about |