“Nigger true, Miss Franconia"-he mumbles out-"on’e gib ’im chance to be.  Ye sees, Bob warn’t gwine t’ lef’ old mas’r, nohow; so I gin ‘ein da slip when’e come t’ takes ’em fo’h sell-”

“Then they didn’t sell you, old Dad?  That’s good! that’s good!  And Daddy’s cold and wet?” she interrupts, anxiously, telling the servant to get some dry clothes for him.

“I is dat, Miss Frankone.  Han’t ad nofin t’ eat dis most two days,” he returns, looking at her affectionately, with one of those simple smiles, so true, so expressive.

A supper is soon ready for Daddy, to which he sits down as if he were about to renew all his former fondness and familiarity.  “Seems like old times, don ’un, Miss Frankone?  Wish old mas’r war here, too,” says the old man, putting the bowl of coffee to his lips, and casting a side-look at the servant.

Franconia sits watching him intently, as if he were a child just rescued from some impending danger.  “Don’t mention my poor uncle, Daddy.  He feels as much interest in you as I do; but the world don’t look upon him now as it once did-”

“Neber mind:  I gwine to work fo’ old mas’r.  It’ll take dis old child to see old mas’r all right,” replies the old man, forgetting that he is too old to take care of himself, properly.  Bob finishes his supper, rests his elbow on the table and his head in his hand, and commences disclosing his troubles to Franconia.  He tells her how he secreted himself in the pine-woods,—­how he wandered through swamps, waded creeks, slept on trunks of trees, crept stealthily to the old mansion at night, listened for mas’r’s footsteps, and watched beneath the veranda; and when he found he was not there, how he turned and left the spot, his poor heart regretting.  How his heart beat as he passed the old familiar cabin, retracing his steps to seek a shelter in the swamp; how, when he learned her residence, famished with hunger, he wended his way into the city to seek her out, knowing she would relieve his wants.

“What vil da do wid me, spose da cotch me, Miss Frankone?” enquires the old man, simply, looking down at his encrusted feet, and again at his nether wardrobe, which he feels is not just the thing to appear in before young missus.

“They won’t do anything cruel to you, Daddy.  You are too old; your grey hairs will protect you.  Why, Daddy, you would not fetch a bid if they found out who owned you, and put you up at auction to-morrow,” she says, with seeming unconsciousness.  She little knew how much the old man prided in his value,—­how much he esteemed the amount of good work he could do for master.  He shakes his head, looks doubtingly at her, as if questioning the sincerity of her remark.

“Just get Daddy Bob-he mutters-a badge, den ’e show missus how much work in ’um.”

Franconia promises to comply with his request, and, with the aid of a friend, will intercede for him, and procure for him a badge, that he may display his energies for the benefit of old mas’r.  This done, she orders the servant to show him his bed in one of the “yard houses;” bids the old man an affectionate good night, retires to her room, and watches the return of her truant swain.