“Nigger ain’t so good as white man” (he shakes his head, philosophically).  “White man sharp; puzzle nigger to find out what ’e don, know ven ’e mind t’.”  Thus saying, he takes a small hymn-book from his pocket, and, Franconia setting the light beside him, commences reading to himself by its dim glare.

“Well! now, uncle, it’s getting late, and I’ve a good way to go, and the night’s stormy; so I must prepare for home.”  Franconia gets up, and evinces signs of withdrawing.  She walks across the little chamber three or four times, looks out of the window, strains her sight into the gloomy prospect, and then, as if reluctant to leave her uncle, again takes a seat by his side.  Gently laying her left hand upon his shoulder, she makes an effort at pleasantry, tells him to keep up his resolution-to be of good cheer.

“Remember, uncle,” she says, calmly, “they tell us it is no disgrace to be poor,—­no shame to work to live; and yet poor people are treated as criminals.  For my own part, I would rather be poor and happy than rich with a base husband; I have lived in New England, know how to appreciate its domestic happiness.  It was there Puritanism founded true American liberty.—­Puritanism yet lives, and may be driven to action; but we must resign ourselves to the will of an all-wise Providence.”  Thus concluding, she makes another attempt to withdraw.

“You must not leave me yet!” says Marston, grasping her hand firmly in his.  “Franke, I cannot part with you until I have disclosed what I have been summoning resolution to suppress.  I know your attachment, Franconia; you have been more than dear to me.  You have known my feelings,—­what they have already had to undergo.”  He pauses.

“Speak it, uncle, speak it!  Keep nothing from me, nor make secrets in fear of my feelings.  Speak out,—­I may relieve you!” she interrupts, nervously:  and again encircling her arm round his neck, waits his reply, in breathless suspense.

He falters for a moment, and then endeavours to regain his usual coolness.  “To-morrow, Franconia,” he half mutters out, “to-morrow, you may find me not so well situated,” (here tears are seen trickling down his cheeks) “and in a place where it will not become your delicate nature to visit me.”

“Nay, uncle!” she stops him there; “I will visit you wherever you may be-in a castle or a prison.”

The word prison has touched the tender chord upon which all his troubles are strung.  He sobs audibly; but they are only sobs of regret, for which there is no recompense in this late hour.  “And would you follow me to a prison, Franconia?” he enquires, throwing his arms about her neck, kissing her pure cheek with the fondness of a father.

“Yea, and share your sorrows within its cold walls.  Do not yield to melancholy, uncle,—­you have friends left:  if not, heaven will prepare a place of rest for you; heaven shields the unfortunate at last,” rejoins the good woman, the pearly tears brightening in mutual sympathy.