Tom and Adolph assisted to get him composed for the night, the latter in high spirits, evidently regarding the matter as a good joke, and laughing heartily at the rusticity of Tom's horror, who really was simple enough to lie awake most of the rest of the night, praying for his young master.
"Well, Tom, what are you waiting for ?" said St.Clare, the next day, as he sat in his library, in dressing-gown and slippers.

St.Clare had just been entrusting Tom with some money, and various commissions.

"Isn't all right there, Tom ?" he added, as Tom still stood waiting.
"I'm 'fraid not, Mas'r," said Tom, with a grave face.
St.Clare laid down his paper, and set down his coffee-cup, and looked at Tom.
"Why Tom, what's the case?
You look as solemn as a coffin." "I feel very bad, Mas'r.

I allays have thought that Mas'r would be good to everybody." "Well, Tom, haven't I been?
Come, now, what do you want?
There's something 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.