She has gone, and the old slave is her guide, her human watch-dog.  Slowly Marston paces the silent chamber alone, giving vent to his pent-up emotions.  What may to-morrow bring forth? runs through his wearied mind.  It is but the sudden downfall of life, so inseparable from the planter who rests his hopes on the abundance of his human property.  But the slave returns, and relieves him of his musings.  He has seen his young missus safe to her door; he has received her kind word, and her good, good night!  Entering the chamber with a smile, he sets about clearing away the little things, and, when done, draws his seat close to Marston, at the fire-place.  As if quite at home beside his old master, he eyes Marston intently for some time,—­seems studying his thoughts and fears.  At length the old slave commences disclosing his feelings.  His well-worn bones are not worth a large sum; nor are the merits of his worthy age saleable;—­no! there is nothing left but his feelings, those genuine virtues so happily illustrated.  Daddy Bob will stand by mas’r, as he expresses it, in power or in prison.  Kindness has excited all that vanity in Bob so peculiar to the negro, and by which he prides himself in the prime value of his person.  There he sits-Marston’s faithful friend, contemplating his silence with a steady gaze, and then, giving his jet-black face a double degree of seriousness, shrugs his shoulders, significantly nods his head, and intimates that it will soon be time to retire, by commencing to unboot master.

“You seem in a hurry to get rid of me, Daddy!  Want to get your own cranium into a pine-knot sleep, eh?” says Marston, with an encouraging smile, pulling the old slave’s whiskers in a playful manner.

“No, Boss; ’tant dat,” returns Bob, keeping on tugging at Marston’s boots until he has got them from his feet, and safely stowed away in a corner.  A gentle hint that he is all ready to relieve Marston of his upper garments brings him to his feet, when Bob commences upon him in right good earnest, and soon has him stowed away between the sheets.  “Bob neber likes to hurry old Boss, but den ‘e kno’ what’s on old Mas’r’s feelins, an ‘e kno’ dat sleep make ’um forget ’um!” rejoins Bob, in a half whisper that caught Marston’s ear, as he patted and fussed about his pillow, in order to make him as comfortable as circumstances would admit.  After this he extinguishes the light, and, accustomed to a slave’s bed, lumbers himself down on the floor beside his master’s cot.  Thus, watchfully, he spends the night.

When morning dawned, Bob was in the full enjoyment of what the negro so pertinently calls a long and strong sleep.  He cannot resist its soothing powers, nor will master disturb him in its enjoyment.  Before breakfast-time arrives, however, he arouses with a loud guffaw, looks round the room vacantly, as if he were doubting the presence of things about him.  Rising to his knees, he rubs his eyes languidly, yawns, and stretches his arms, scratches his head,