earth’s chosen, must save his infirm body lest some man sell him for the worth thereof.  Bob’s face is white with beard, and his coarse garments are much worn and ragged; but there is something pleasing in the familiarity with which Franconia accepts his brawny hand.  How free from that cold advance, that measured welcome, and that religious indifference, with which the would-be friend of the slave, at the north, too often accepts the black man’s hand!  There is something in the fervency with which she shakes his wrinkled hand that speaks of the goodness of the heart; something that touches the old slave’s childlike nature.  He smiles bashfully, and says, “Glad t’ see ye, missus; dat I is:  ’spishilly ven ye takes care on old mas’r.”  After receiving her salutation he follows her to the chamber, across which he hastens to receive a welcome from old mas’r.  Marston warmly receives his hand, and motions him to be seated on the chest near the fire-place.  Bob takes his seat, keeping his eye on mas’r the while.  “Neber mind, mas’r,” he says, “Big Mas’r above be better dan Buckra.  Da’h is somefin’ what Buckra no sell from ye, dat’s a good heart.  If old mas’r on’y keeps up he spirit, de Lor’ ‘ll carry un throu’ ’e triblation,” he continues; and, after watching his master a few minutes, returns to Franconia, and resumes his jargon.

Franconia is the same fair creature Bob watched over when she visited the plantation:  her countenance wears the same air of freshness and frankness; her words are of the same gentleness; she seems as solicitous of his comfort as before.  And yet a shadow of sadness shrouds that vivacity which had made her the welcome guest of the old slaves.  He cannot resist those expressions which are ever ready to lisp forth from the negro when his feelings are excited.  “Lor, missus, how old Bob’s heart feels!  Hah, ah! yah, yah!  Looks so good, and reminds old Bob how e’ look down on dah Astley, yander.  But, dah somefin in dat ar face what make old nigger like I know missus don’t feel just right,” he exclaims.

The kind woman reads his thoughts in the glowing simplicity of his wrinkled face.  “It has been said that a dog was our last friend, Bob:  I now think a slave should have been added.  Don’t you think so, uncle?” she enquires, looking at Marston, and, again taking the old slave by the hand, awaits the reply.

“We rarely appreciate their friendship until it be too late to reward it,” he replies, with an attempt to smile.

“True, true! but the world is full of ingratitude,—­very amiable ingratitude.  Never mind, Daddy; you must now tell me all about your affairs, and what has happened since the night you surprised me at our house; and you must tell me how you escaped M’Carstrow on the morning of the disturbance,” she enjoins.  And while Bob relates his story Franconia prepares his supper.  Some cold ham, bread, and coffee, are soon spread out before him.  He will remove them to the chest, near the fire-place.  “Why, Missus Frankone,” he says, “ye sees how I’se so old now dat nobody tink I’se werf ownin; and so nobody axes old Bob whose nigger he is.  An’t prime nigger, now; but den a’ good fo’ work some, and get cash, so t’ help old mas’r yander (Bob points to old master).  Likes t’ make old master feel not so bad.”