“To-morrow, my child, you will find me the unhappy tenant of those walls where man’s discomfiture is complete.”

“Nay, uncle, nay! you are only allowing your melancholy forebodings to get the better of you.  Such men as Graspum-men who have stripped families of their all-might take away your property, and leave you as they have left my poor parents; but no one would be so heartless as to drive you to the extreme of imprisonment.  It is a foolish result at best.”  Franconia’s voice falters; she looks more and more intently in her uncle’s face, struggles to suppress her rising emotions.  She knows his frankness, she feels the pain of his position; but, though the dreadful extreme seems scarcely possible, there is that in his face conveying strong evidence of the truth of his remark.

“Do not weep, Franconia; spare your tears for a more worthy object:  such trials have been borne by better men than I. I am but the merchandise of my creditors.  There is, however, one thing which haunts me to grief; could I have saved my children, the pain of my position had been slight indeed.”

“Speak not of them, uncle,” Franconia interrupts, “you cannot feel the bitterness of their lot more than myself.  I have saved a mother, but have failed to execute my plan of saving them; and my heart throbs with pain when I think that now it is beyond my power.  Let me not attempt to again excite in your bosom feelings which must ever be harassing, for the evil only can work its destruction.  To clip the poisoning branches and not uproot the succouring trunk, is like casting pearls into the waste of time.  My heart will ever be with the destinies of those children, my feelings bound in unison with theirs; our hopes are the same, and if fortune should smile on me in times to come I will keep my word-I will snatch them from the devouring element of slavery.”

“Stop, my child!” speaks Marston, earnestly:  “Remember you can do little against the strong arm of the law, and still stronger arm of public opinion.  Lay aside your hopes of rescuing those children, Franconia, and remember that while I am in prison I am the property of my creditors, subject to their falsely conceived notions of my affairs,” he continues.  “I cannot now make amends to the law of nature,” he adds, burying his face in his hand, weeping a child’s tears.

Franconia looks solicitously upon her uncle, as he sorrows.  She would dry her tears to save his throbbing heart.  Her noble generosity and disinterestedness have carried her through many trials since her marriage, but it fails to nerve her longer.  Her’s is a single-hearted sincerity, dispensing its goodness for the benefit of the needy; she suppresses her own troubles that she may administer consolation to others.  “The affection that refuses to follow misfortune to its lowest step is weak indeed.  If you go to prison, Franconia will follow you there,” she says, with touching pathos, her musical voice adding strength to the resolution.  Blended with that soft angelic expression her eyes give forth, her calm dignity and inspiring nobleness show how firm is that principle of her nature never to abandon her old friend.