“There is some pleasure, after all, in having a quiet spot where we can sit down and forget our cares.  Perhaps (all said and done) a man may call himself prince of his own garret, when he can forget all beyond it,” says Marston affected to tears by Franconia’s womanly resignation.

“Yes,” returns Franconia, joyously, “it’s a consolation to know that we have people among us much worse off than we are.  I confess, though, I feel uneasy about our old slaves.  Slavery’s wrong, uncle; and it’s when one’s reduced to such extremes as are presented in this uninviting garret that we realise it the more forcibly.  It gives the poor wretches no chance of bettering their condition; and if one exhibits ever so much talent over the other, there is no chance left him to improve it.  It is no recompense to the slave that his talent only increases the price of the article to be sold.  Look what Harry would have been had he enjoyed freedom.  Uncle, we forget our best interests while pondering over the security of a bad system.  Would it not be better to cultivate the slave’s affections, rather than oppress his feelings?” Franconia has their cause at heart-forgets her own.  She is far removed from the cold speculations of the south; she is free from mercenary motives; unstained by that principle of logic which recognises only the man merchandise.  No will hath she to contrive ingenious apologies for the wrongs inflicted upon a fallen race.  Her words spring from the purest sentiment of the soul; they contain a smarting rebuke of Marston’s former misdoings:  but he cannot resent it, nor can he turn the tide of his troubles against her noble generosity.

They had eaten their humble supper of meats and bread, and coffee, when Franconia hears a rap at the lower entrance, leading into the street.  Bearing the taper in her hand, she descends the stairs quickly, and, opening the door, recognises the smiling face of Daddy Bob.  Daddy greets her as if he were surcharged with the very best news for old mas’r and missus.  He laughs in the exuberance of his simplicity, and, with an air of fondness that would better become a child, says, “Lor’, young missus, how glad old Bob is to see ye!  Seems like long time since old man see’d Miss Frankone look so spry.  Got dat badge.”  The old man shows her his badge, exultingly.  “Missus, nobody know whose nigger I’m’s, and old Bob arns a right smart heap o’ money to make mas’r comfortable.”  The old slave never for once thinks of his own infirmities; no, his attachment for master soars above every thing else; he thinks only in what way he can relieve his necessities.  Honest, faithful, and affectionate, the associations of the past are uppermost in his mind; he forgets his slavery in his love for master and the old plantation.  Readily would he lay down his life, could he, by so doing, lighten the troubles he instinctively sees in the changes of master’s position.  The old plantation and its people have been sold; and he, being among the separated from