her agitation with unmoved muscle.  To him it is a true index to the sequel.  “If you will pardon me, Madame,” he continues, “as I was about to say of this miserable shoemaker, he took to drink, as all our white mechanics do, and then used to abuse her.  We don’t think anything of these people, you see, who after giving themselves up to whiskey, die in the poor house, a terrible death.  This shoemaker, of whom I speak, died, and she was turned into the streets by her landlord, and that sent her to living with a ‘yellow fellow,’ as we call them.  Soon after this she died-so report has it.  We never know much, you see, about these common people.  They are a sort of trash we can make nothing of, and they get terribly low now and then.”  Madame Montford’s swelling breast heaves, her countenance wears an air of melancholy; again she nervously lays aside the cloud-like skirts of her brocade dress.  “Have you not,” she inquires, fretting her jewelled fingers and displaying the massive gold bracelets that clasp her wrists, “some stronger evidence of her death?” Mr. Snivel says he has none but what he gathered from the negroes and poor mechanics, who live in the by-lanes of the city.  There is little dependence, however, to be placed in such reports.  Madame, with an air of composure, rises from her chair, and paces twice or thrice across the room, seemingly in deep study.  “Something,” she speaks, stopping suddenly in one of her sallies—­“something (I do not know what it is) tells me she yet lives:  that this is the child we see, living an abandoned life.”

“As I was going on to say, Madame,” pursues Mr. Snivel, with great blandness of manner, “when our white trash get to living with our negroes they are as well as dead.  One never knows what comes of them after that.  Being always ready to do a bit of a good turn, as you know, I looked in at Sam Wiley’s cabin.  Sam Wiley is a negro of some respectability, and generally has an eye to what becomes of these white wretches.  I don’t-I assure you I don’t, Madame-look into these places except on professional business.  Sam, after making inquiry among his neighbors-our colored population view these people with no very good opinion, when they get down in the world-said he thought she had found her way through the gates of the poor man’s graveyard.”

“Poor man’s graveyard!” repeats Madame Montford, again resuming her chair.

“Exactly!  We have to distinguish between people of position and those white mechanics who come here from the North, get down in the world, and then die.  We can’t sell this sort of people, you see.  No keeping their morals straight without you can.  However, this is not to the point. (Mr. Solomon Snivel keeps his eyes intently fixed upon the lady.)

“I sought out the old Sexton, a stupid old cove enough.  He had neither names on his record nor graves that answered the purpose.  In a legal sense, Madame, this would not be valid testimony, for this old cove being only too glad to get rid of our poor, and the fees into his pocket, is not very particular about names.  If it were one of our ‘first families,’ the old fellow would be so obsequious about having the name down square—­”