The old negro, who had seemed absorbed in his sympathetic reflections, gazes steadfastly at his old master, until his emotions spring forth in kindest solicitude.  Resistance is beyond his power.  “Neber mind, old mas’r,” (he speaks in a devoted tone) “dar’s better days comin, bof fo’ old Bob and mas’r.  Tink ’um sees de day when de old plantation jus so ‘t was wid mas’r and da’ old folks.”  Concluding in a subdued voice, he approaches Franconia, and seats himself, book in hand, on the floor at her feet.  Moved by his earnestness, she lays her hand playfully upon his head, saying:  “Here is our truest friend, uncle!”

“My own heart lubs Miss Frankone more den eber,” he whispers in return.  How pure, how holy, is the simple recompense!  It is nature’s only offering, all the slave can give; and he gives it in the bounty of his soul.

Marston’s grief having subsided, he attempts to soothe Franconia’s feelings, by affecting an air of indifference.  “What need I care, after all? my resolution should be above it,” he says, thrusting his right hand into his breast pocket, and drawing out a folded paper, which he throws upon the little table, and says, “There, Franconia, my child! that contains the climax of my unlamented misfortunes; read it:  it will show you where my next abode will be-I may be at peace there; and there is consolation at being at peace, even in a cell.”  He passes the paper into her hand.

With an expression of surprise she opens it, and glances over its contents; then reads it word by word.  “Do they expect to get something from nothing?” she says, sarcastically.  “It is one of those soothsayers so valuable to men whose feelings are only with money-to men who forget they cannot carry money to the graves; and that no tribute is demanded on either road leading to the last abode of man.”

“Stop there, my child! stop!” interrupts Marston.  “I have given them all, ’tis true; but suspicion is my persecutor-suspicion, and trying to be a father to my own children!”

“It is, indeed, a misfortune to be a father under such circumstances, in such an atmosphere!” the good woman exclaims, clasping her hands and looking upward, as if imploring the forgiveness of Heaven.  Tremblingly she held the paper in her hand, until it fell upon the floor, as she, overcome, swooned in her uncle’s arms.

She swooned! yes, she swooned.  That friend upon whom her affections had been concentrated was a prisoner.  The paper was a bail writ, demanding the body of the accused.  The officer serving had been kind enough to allow Marston his parole of honour until the next morning.  He granted this in accordance with Marston’s request, that by the lenity he might see Daddy Bob and Franconia once more.