with hard work he will certainly die."

"Has life been so easy and comfortable then at the steward's?"

"Very little wine, very little meat, very much hunger," said the old man.

"Then you must be glad to leave him."

"No, no," groaned Sebek.

"You foolish old owl," said Mastor. "Why do you care then for that
grumpy niggard?"

The negro did not answer for some time, then his lean breast heaved and
fell, and, as if the dam were broken through that had choked his
utterance, he burst out with a mixture of loud sobs:

"The children, the little ones, our little ones. They are so sweet; and
our little blind Helios stroked my hair because I was to go away, here--
just here he stroked it"--and he put his hand on a perfectly bald place
--"and now Sebek must go and never see them all again, just as if they
were all dead."

And the words rolled out and with difficulty, as if carried on in the
flood of his tears. They went to Mastor's heart, rousing the memory of
his own lost children and a strong desire to comfort his unhappy comrade.

"Poor fellow!" he said, compassionately. "Aye, the children! they are
so small, and the door into one's heart is so narrow--and they dance in
at it a thousand times better and more easily than grown-up folks.