front of the fire. "There will be a coroner's inquest, I suppose,
and there may be papers in his pockets which will tell who he was
and where he belonged. When you are through in here, lock the door
and take out the key--and if you can help it, don't let a whisper of
this get abroad before breakfast. It will spoil the ladies'
appetites. If anybody asks how he is, say 'a little better.' He
can't be worse off than he was in life, let him be where he may."

"Yes, sir," answered Phillis, in meek obedience. "But I don't think
he was the kind his folks would care to keep track on, nor the sort
that carries valeyble papers 'round with 'em."

"I reckon you are not far out of the way there!" laughed the doctor,
subduedly, lest the echo in the empty hall might reach the sleepers
on the second floor, and he ran lightly down the garret steps.

The inquest sat that afternoon. It was a leisure season with
planters, and a jury was easily collected by special
messengers--twelve jolly neighbors, who were not averse to the
prospect of a glass of Mrs. Sutton's famous egg-nogg, and a social
smoke around the fire in the great dining-room, even though these
were prefaced by ten minutes' solemn discussion over the remains of
the nameless wayfarer.

His shirt was marked with some illegible characters, done in faded
ink, which four of the jury spelled out as "James Knowlton," three
others made up into "Jonas Lamson," and the remaining five declined
deciphering at all. Upon one sock were the letters "R. M." upon the
fellow, "G. B." With these unavailable exceptions, there was
literally no clue to his name, profession, or residence, to be