“Come in, Bob, come in!” Marston says, motioning his hand, “I wish the world was as faithful as you are.  You are worthy the indulgence I have bestowed upon you; let me hope there is something better in prospect for you.  My life reproves me; and when I turn and review its crooked path-when I behold each inconsistency chiding me-I lament what I cannot recall.”  Taking the old man by the hand, the tears glistening in his eyes, he looks upon him as a father would his child.

“In a short time, Bob, you shall be free to go where you please, on the plantation or off it.  But remember, Bob, you are old-you have grown grey in faithfulness,—­the good southerner is the true friend of the negro!  I mean he is the true friend of the negro, because he has associated with him from childhood, assimilated with his feelings, made his nature a study.  He welcomes him without reserve, approaches him without that sensitiveness and prejudice which the northerner too often manifests towards him.  You shall be free, Bob! you shall be free!-free to go where you please; but you must remain among southerners, southerners are your friends.”

“Yes, mas’r, ’im all just so good, if t’warn’t dat I so old.  Free nigger, when ’e old, don’t gwane to get along much.  Old Bob tink on dat mighty much, he do dat!  Lef Bob free win ’e young, den ’e get tru’ de world like Buckra, only lef ’im de chance what Buckra hab.  Freedom ain’t wof much ven old Bob worn out, mas’r; and Buckra what sell nigger,—­what make ’e trade on him, run ’im off sartin.  He sell old nigger what got five dollar wof’ a work in ’e old bones.  Mas’r set ’um free, bad Buckra catch ‘um, old Bob get used up afo’ he know nofin,” quaintly replied the old man, seeming to have an instinctive knowledge of the “nigger trade,” but with so much attachment for his master that he could not be induced to accept his freedom.

“It’s not the leaving me, Bob; you may be taken from me.  You are worth but little, ’tis true, and yet you may be sold from me to a bad master.  If the slave-dealers run you off, you can let me know, and I will prosecute them,” returned Marston.

“Ah! mas’r; dat’s just whar de blunt is-in de unsartainty!  How I gwane to let mas’r know, when mas’r no larn nigger to read,” he quickly responded.  There is something in his simple remark that Marston has never before condescended to contemplate,—­something the simple nature of the negro has just disclosed; it lies deeply rooted at the foundation of all the wrongs of slavery.  Education would be valuable to the negro, especially in his old age; it would soften his impulses rather than impair his attachment, unless the master be a tyrant fearing the results of his own oppression.  Marston, a good master, had deprived the old man of the means of protecting himself against the avarice of those who would snatch him from freedom, and while his flesh and blood contained dollars and cents, sell him into slavery.  Freedom, under the best circumstances, could do him little good in his old age; and yet, a knowledge of the wrong rankled deep in Marston’s feelings:  he could relieve it only by giving Daddy Bob and Harry their freedom if they would accept it.