"They cannot enslave affection, nor
can they confine it within prison walls," he mutters. He has proof
in the faithfulness of Daddy, his old slave. And as he contemplates,
the words "she will be more than welcome to-night," escape his lips.
Simultaneously a gentle tapping is heard at the door. Slowly it
opens, and the figure of an old negro, bearing a basket on his arm,
enters. He is followed by the slender and graceful form of
Franconia, who approaches her uncle, hand extended, salutes him with
a kiss, seats herself at his side, says he must not be sad. Then she
silently gazes upon him for a few moments, as if touched by his
troubles, while the negro, having spread the contents of the basket
upon the chest, makes a humble bow, wishes mas'r and missus good
night, and withdraws. "There, uncle," she says, laying her hand
gently on his arm, "I didn't forget you, did I?" She couples the
word with a smile-a smile so sweet, so expressive of her soul's
goodness. "You are dear to me, uncle; yes, as dear as a father. How
could I forget that you have been a father to me? I have brought
these little things to make you comfortable,"-she points to the
edibles on the chest-"and I wish I were not tied to a slave, uncle,
for then I could do more. Twice, since my marriage to M'Carstrow,
have I had to protect myself from his ruffianism."
"From his ruffianism!" interrupts Marston, quickly: "Can it be, my
child, that even a ruffian would dare exhibit his vileness toward
you?"
"Even toward me, uncle.
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