A candle sheds its sickly light upon
the humid walls; faintly it discloses the face of Daddy Bob,
immersed in tears, watching intently over the foot of the cot.
"Missus Frankone is alw's kind to mas'r!"
"I loved uncle because his heart was good," returns Franconia.
"'Tis dat, missus. How kindly old mas'r, long time ago, used to say,
'Good mornin', Bob! Daddy, mas'r lubs you!"
How firmly the happy recollection of these kind words is sealed in
the old man's memory.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
IN WHICH REGRETS ARE SHOWN OF LITTLE WORTH.
THE reader may remember, that we, in the early part of our
narrative, made some slight mention of the Rovero family, of which
Franconia and Lorenzo were the only surviving children. They, too,
had been distinguished as belonging to a class of opulent planters;
but, having been reduced to poverty by the same nefarious process
through which we have traced Marston's decline, and which we shall
more fully disclose in the sequel, had gathered together the
remnants of a once extensive property, and with the proceeds
migrated to a western province of Mexico, where, for many years,
though not with much success, Rovero pursued a mining speculation.
They lived in a humble manner; Mrs. Rovero, Marston's sister-and of
whom we have a type in the character of her daughter,
Franconia-discarded all unnecessary appurtenances of living, and
looked forward to the time when they would be enabled to retrieve
their fortunes and return to their native district to spend the
future of their days on the old homestead.
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