Marston is left poor upon the world; Ellen Juvarna is in the hands of a resurrectionist; Nicholas-a bright boy he has grown-is within the dark confines of a prison cell, along with Clotilda and Annette.  Melancholy broods over the plantation now.  The act of justice,—­the right which Marston saw through wrong, and which he had intended to carry out,—­is now beyond his power.  Stripped of those comforts he had enjoyed, his offspring carried off as trophies of avarice,—­perhaps for sale to some ruffian who would set a price upon their beauty,—­he sits down, sick at heart, and weeps a child’s tears.  The mansion, so long the scene of pleasure and hospitality, is like a deserted barrack;-still, gloomy, cold, in the absence of familiar faces.  No servant comes to call him master,—­Dandy and Enoch are gone; and those familiar words, so significant of affection between master and slave, “Glad to see ye home, mas’r,” no longer sounded in his ears.  Even his overseer has become alarmed, and like the rest levied for arrears of wages.

There is nothing for Marston but to give up all,—­to leave the home of his childhood, his manhood, his happier days.  He is suddenly reminded that there is virtue in fortitude; and, as he gazes round the room, the relics of happier days redouble his conviction of the evil he has brought upon himself by straying from the paths of rectitude.  Indeed, so sudden was his fall from distinction, that the scene around him seemed like a dream, from which he had just awoke to question its precipitancy.  “A sheriff is here now, and I am a mere being of sufferance,” he says, casting a moody glance around the room, as if contemplating the dark prospect before him.  A few moments’ pause, and he rises, walks to the window, looks out upon the serene scene spread out before the mansion.  There is the river, on which he has spent so many pleasant hours, calmly winding its way through deep green foliage mellowed by the moonlight.  Its beauties only remind him of the past.  He walks away,—­struggles to forget, to look above his trials.  He goes to the old side-board that has so long given forth its cheer; that, too, is locked!  “Locked to me!” he says, attempting to open its doors.  A sheriff’s lock hangs upon them.  Accustomed to every indulgence, each check indicated a doubt of his honour, wounding his feelings.  The smaller the restraint the deeper did it pierce his heart.  While in this desponding mood, vainly endeavouring to gain resolution to carry him through, a gentle rap is heard at the door.  Who can it be at this hour? he questions to himself.  No servant is near him; servants have all been led into captivity for the satisfaction of debts.  He approaches the door and opens it himself, looking cautiously into the corridor.  There, crouched in a niche, alternately presenting fear and joy,—­fear lest he be seen by the enemy, and joy to see his master,—­is a dark figure with the familiar face of Daddy Bob,—­Bob of the old plantation.  The old, faithful servant puts out his wrinkled hand nervously, saying, “Oh, good mas’r!” He has looked up to Marston with the same love that an affectionate child does to a kind parent; he has enjoyed mas’r’s warm welcome, nurtured his confidence, had his say in directing the affairs of the plantation, and watched the frailties that threatened it.