“Yes,” rejoins Marston, “Bob’s good to me.  He makes his sleeping apartments, when he comes, at the foot of my bed, and shares his earnings with me every Saturday night.  He’s like an old clock that can keep time as well as a new one, only wind it up with care.”

“Dat I is!” says Daddy, with an exulting nod of the head, as he, to his own surprise, lets fall his cup.  It was only the negro’s forgetfulness in the moment of excitement.  Giving a wistful look at Franconia, he commences picking up the pieces, and drawing his week’s earnings from a side pocket of his jacket.

“Eat your supper, Daddy; never mind your money now” says Franconia, laughing heartily:  at which Bob regains confidence and resumes his supper, keeping a watchful eye upon his old master the while.  Every now and then he will pause, cant his ear, and shake his head, as if drinking in the tenour of the conversation between Franconia and her uncle.  Having concluded, he pulls out his money and spreads it upon the chest.  “Old Bob work hard fo’ dat!” he says, with emphasis, spreading a five-dollar bill and two dollars and fifty cents in silver into divisions.  “Dah!” he ejaculates, “dat old mas’r share, and dis is dis child’s.”  The old man looks proudly upon the coin, and feels he is not so worthless, after all.  “Now! who say old Bob aint werf nofin?” he concludes, getting up, putting his share into his pocket, and then, as if unobserved, slipping the balance into Marston’s.  This done, he goes to the window, affects to be looking out, and then resuming his seat upon the chest, commences humming a familiar plantation tune, as if his pious feelings had been superseded by the recollection of past scenes.

“What, Daddy,—­singing songs?” interrupts Franconia, looking at him enquiringly.  He stops as suddenly as he commenced, exchanges an expressive look, and fain would question her sincerity.

“Didn’t mean ’um, missus,” he returns, after a moment’s hesitation, “didn’t mean ’um.  Was thinkin ’bout somefin back’ards; down old plantation times.”

“You had better forget them times, Bob.”

“Buckra won’t sell dis old nigger,—­will he, Miss Frankone?” he enquires, resuming his wonted simplicity.

“Sell you, Bob?  You’re a funny old man.  Don’t think your old half-worn-out bones are going to save you.  Money’s the word:  they’ll sell anything that will produce it,—­dried up of age are no exceptions.  Keep out of Elder Pemberton Praiseworthy’s way:  whenever you hear him singing, ’I know that my Redeemer liveth, and that he shall come,’ as he always does,—­run!  He lives on the sale of infirmity, and your old age would be a capital thing for the exercise of his genius.  He will put you through a course of regeneration, take the wrinkles smooth out of your face, dye those old grey whiskers, and get a profit for his magic power of transposing the age of negro property,” she replied, gravely, while Bob stares at her as if doubting his own security.