“Why, Daddy Bob!  Can it be you?” Marston says, modulating his voice, as a change comes over his feelings.

“Dis is me, mas’r; it is me,” again says the old man.  He is wet with the night dew, but his heart is warm and affectionate.  Marston seizes his hand as if to return the old man’s gratitude, and leads him into the room, smiling.  “Sit down, Bob, sit down!” he says, handing him a chair.  The old servant stands at the chair hesitatingly, doubting his position.  “Fear nothing, Bob; sit down.  You are my best friend,” Marston continues.  Bob takes a seat, lays his cap quietly upon the floor, smiles to see old mas’r, but don’t feel just right because there’s something wrong:  he draws the laps of his jacket together, covers the remnant of a shirt.  “Mas’r, what be da’ gwine to do wid de old plantation?  Tings, Bob reckon, b’nt gwine straight,” he speaks, looking at Marston shyly.  The old slave knew his master’s heart, and had waited for him to unfold its beatings; but the kind heart of the master yielded to the burden that was upon it, and never more so than when moved by the strong attachment evinced by the old man.  There was mutual sympathy pourtrayed in the tenderest emotions.  The one was full of grief, and, if touched by the word of a friend, would overflow; the other was susceptible of kindness, knew something had befallen his master, and was ready to present the best proofs of his attachment.

“And how did you get here, my old faithful?” inquires Marston, drawing nearer to him.

“Well, mas’r, ye see, t’ant just so wid nigger what don’ know how tings is!  But, Bob up t’ dese tings.  I sees Buckra, what look as if he hab no rights on dis plantation, grab’n up all de folks.  And Lor,’ mas’r, old Bob could’nt leave mas’r no how.  An, den, when da’ begins to chain de folks up-da’ chain up old Rachel, mas’r!-Old Bob feel so de plantation war’nt no-whare; and him time t’be gwine.  Da’h an’t gwine t’ cotch old Bob, and carry ’m way from mas’r, so I jist cum possum ober dem-stows away yander, down close in de old corn crib,—­”

“And you eluded the sheriff to take care of me, did you, Daddy?” interrupts Marston, and again takes the old man’s hand.

“Oh, mas’r, Bob ain’t white, but ‘is feeling get so fo’ h mas’r, he can’t speak ’em,” the old slave replies, pearls glistening in his eyes.  “My feelings feel so, I can’t speak ’em!” And with a brother’s fondness he shakes his master’s hand.

We must beg the reader’s indulgence here for the purpose of making a few remarks upon the negro’s power of observation.  From the many strange disquisitions that have been put forward on the mental qualities of the man of colour-more particularly the African-few can be selected which have not had for their object his disqualification.  His power of observation has been much undervalued; but it has been chiefly by those who judge him by a superficial scale, or from a selfish motive.  In the position of mere