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.  “Is my good young Miss wid’n?” he enquires, in the same whispering voice, holding his cap in his right hand.

“Reckon how ye bes be gwine out a dat afo’h Miss come.  Yer miss don’ lib in dis ouse.”  So saying, the girl is about to close the door in the old man’s face, for he is ragged and dejected, and has the appearance of a “suspicious nigger without a master.”

“Don’ talk so, good gal; ye don’ know dis old man,—­so hungry,—­most starved.  I lub Miss Franconia.  Tell she I’ze here,” he says, in a supplicating tone, as the girl, regaining confidence, scrutinises him from head to foot with the aid of her lamp.

The servant is about to request he will come inside that she may shut out the storm.  “Frankone knows old Daddy Bob,—­dat she do!” he reiterates, working his cap in his fingers.  The familiar words have caught Franconia’s ear; she recognises the sound of the old man’s voice; she springs to her feet, as her heart gladdens with joy.  She bounds down the stairs, and to the door, grasps the old man’s hand, as a fond child warmly grasps the hand of a parent, and welcomes him with the tenderness of a sister.  “Poor-my poor old Daddy!” she says, looking in his face so sweetly, so earnestly, “where have you come from? who bought you? how did you escape?” she asks, in rapid succession.  Holding his hand, she leads him along the passage, as he tells her.  “Ah, missus, I sees hard times since old mas’r lef’ de plantation.  Him an’t how he was ven you dah.”  He views her, curiously, from head to foot; kisses her hand; laughs with joy, as he was wont to laugh on the old plantation.

“Faithful as ever, Daddy?  You found me out, and came to see me, didn’t you?” says Franconia, so kindly, leading him into a small room on the left hand of the hall, where, after ordering some supper for him, she begs he will tell her all about his wayfaring.  It is some minutes before Bob can get an opportunity to tell Franconia that he is a fugitive, having escaped the iron grasp of the law to stand true to old mas’r.  At length he, in the enthusiastic boundings of his heart, commences his story.