"Dis is me, mas'r; it is me," again says the old man. He is wet with
the night dew, but his heart is warm and affectionate. Marston
seizes his hand as if to return the old man's gratitude, and leads
him into the room, smiling. "Sit down, Bob, sit down!" he says,
handing him a chair. The old servant stands at the chair
hesitatingly, doubting his position. "Fear nothing, Bob; sit down.
You are my best friend," Marston continues. Bob takes a seat, lays
his cap quietly upon the floor, smiles to see old mas'r, but don't
feel just right because there's something wrong: he draws the laps
of his jacket together, covers the remnant of a shirt. "Mas'r, what
be da' gwine to do wid de old plantation? Tings, Bob reckon, b'nt
gwine straight," he speaks, looking at Marston shyly. The old slave
knew his master's heart, and had waited for him to unfold its
beatings; but the kind heart of the master yielded to the burden
that was upon it, and never more so than when moved by the strong
attachment evinced by the old man. There was mutual sympathy
pourtrayed in the tenderest emotions. The one was full of grief,
and, if touched by the word of a friend, would overflow; the other
was susceptible of kindness, knew something had befallen his master,
and was ready to present the best proofs of his attachment.
"And how did you get here, my old faithful?" inquires Marston,
drawing nearer to him.
"Well, mas'r, ye see, t'ant just so wid nigger what don' know how
tings is! But, Bob up t' dese tings.
Pages:
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235