At a second-story window,
lighted by a taper burning on the sill, sits Franconia, alone,
waiting the return of M'Carstrow. M'Carstrow is enjoying his night
orgies! He cares neither for the pelting storm, the anxiety of his
wife, nor the sweets of home.
A gust of wind shakes the house; the windows rattle their stormy
music; the cricket answers to the wailings of the gale as it gushes
through the crevices; Franconia's cares are borne to her husband.
Now the wind subsides,--a slow rap is heard at the hall door, in the
basement: a female servant, expecting her master, hastens to open
it. Her master is not there; the wind has extinguished the flaring
light; and the storm, sweeping through the sombre arch, spreads
noise and confusion. She runs to the kitchen, seizes the globular
lamp, and soon returns, frightened at the sight presented in the
door. Master is not there-it is the lean figure of a strange old
"nigger," whose weather-worn face, snowy with beard and wrinkled
with age, is lit up with gladness. He has a warm soul within him,--a
soul not unacceptable to heaven! The servant shrinks back,--she is
frightened at the strange sight of the strange old man. "Don' be
feared, good child; Bob ain't bad nigger," says the figure, in a
guttural whisper.
"An't da'h fo'h notin good; who is ye'?" returns the girl, holding
the globular lamp before her shining black face. Cautiously she
makes a step or two forward, squinting at the sombre figure of the
old negro, as he stands trembling in the doorway.
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