cannot be concealed; but we must be obedient to the will that directs all things;—­and if it be that we remain blind in despotism until misfortune opens our eyes, let the cause of the calamity be charged to those it belongs to,” he concludes; and then, after a few minutes’ silence, he lights his taper, and sets it upon the table.  His care-worn countenance pales with melancholy; his hair has whitened with tribulation; his demeanour denotes a man of tender sensibility fast sinking into a physical wreck.  A well-soiled book lies on the table, beside which he takes his seat; he turns its pages over and over carelessly, as if it were an indifferent amusement to wile away the time.  “They cannot enslave affection, nor can they confine it within prison walls,” he mutters.  He has proof in the faithfulness of Daddy, his old slave.  And as he contemplates, the words “she will be more than welcome to-night,” escape his lips.  Simultaneously a gentle tapping is heard at the door.  Slowly it opens, and the figure of an old negro, bearing a basket on his arm, enters.  He is followed by the slender and graceful form of Franconia, who approaches her uncle, hand extended, salutes him with a kiss, seats herself at his side, says he must not be sad.  Then she silently gazes upon him for a few moments, as if touched by his troubles, while the negro, having spread the contents of the basket upon the chest, makes a humble bow, wishes mas’r and missus good night, and withdraws.  “There, uncle,” she says, laying her hand gently on his arm, “I didn’t forget you, did I?” She couples the word with a smile-a smile so sweet, so expressive of her soul’s goodness.  “You are dear to me, uncle; yes, as dear as a father.  How could I forget that you have been a father to me?  I have brought these little things to make you comfortable,"-she points to the edibles on the chest-"and I wish I were not tied to a slave, uncle, for then I could do more.  Twice, since my marriage to M’Carstrow, have I had to protect myself from his ruffianism.”

“From his ruffianism!” interrupts Marston, quickly:  “Can it be, my child, that even a ruffian would dare exhibit his vileness toward you?”

“Even toward me, uncle.  With reluctance I married him, and my only regret is, that a slave’s fate had not been mine ere the fruits of that day fell upon me.  Women like me make a feeble defence in the world; and bad husbands are the shame of their sex,” she returns, her eyes brightening with animation, as she endeavours to calm the excitement her remarks have given rise to:  “Don’t, pray don’t mind it, uncle,” she concludes.

“Such news had been anticipated; but I was cautious not to”—­

“Never mind,” she interrupts, suddenly coiling her delicate arm round his neck, and impressing a kiss on his care-worn cheek.  “Let us forget these things; they are but the fruits of weak nature.  It were better to bear up under trouble than yield to trouble’s burdens:  better far.  Who knows but that it is all for the best?” She rises, and, with seeming cheerfulness, proceeds to spread the little table with the refreshing tokens of her friendship.  Yielding to necessity, the table is spread, and they sit down, with an appearance of domestic quietness touchingly humble.