"It is enough," says the stranger, "they are all familiar names."
"Did you know my good old master?" interrupts the negro, suddenly,
as if detecting some familiar feature in the stranger's countenance.
"No," he replies, measuredly; "but his name has sounded in my ears a
thousand times. Tell me where are the children, Annette and
Nicholas? and where may I find Franconia?"
The negro shakes his head, and remains silent for a few minutes. At
length he raises his hand, and in a half-whisper says, "Gone, gone,
gone; sold and scattered, good mas'r. Habn't see dem child dis many
a day: reckon da'h done gone down south." He hesitates suddenly, as
if calling something to memory; and then, placing his left hand on
the stranger's right arm, as he rubs his left across his forehead,
stammers out-"Mas'r, mas'r, I reckon dis child do know somefin 'bout
Miss Frankone. Anyhow, mas'r (ye knows I'se nigger do'h, and don't
keep up 'quaintance a'ter mas'r sell um), can put ye straight 'bout
Missus Rosebrook's house, and reckon how dat lady can put ye
straight on Miss Frankone's where'bout." It is what the stranger
wants. He has heard of Mrs. Rosebrook before; she will give him the
information he seeks; so, turning again to the negro, he tells him
that, for a few days at least, he shall require his presence at the
same hour in the evening: tonight he must conduct him to Mrs.
Rosebrook's sequestered villa.
The watch-tower bell of the guard-house sounds forth nine o'clock.
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