“I am, good sir, heartily glad your mission is thus laudable.  Be at home, and while you are in the city let our home be yours.  Franconia is here with us to-night; the child you search after is also with us, and it was but to-day we learned the cruelties to which she has been subjected during the last few years.  Indeed, her fate had been kept concealed from us until a few weeks ago, and to-day, having escaped the brutal designs of a ruffian, she fled to us for protection, and is now concealed under our roof-”

“Yes, poor wretch-it is too true!” rejoins Rosebrook.  “But something must be done as quickly as possible, for if Pringle Blowers regains her she will be subjected to tortures her frame is too delicate to bear up under.  There must be no time lost, not a day!” he says, as Mrs. Rosebrook quickly leaves the room to convey the news to Franconia, who, with Annette, is in an adjoining apartment.

Like a hunted deer, Annette’s fears were excited on hearing the stranger enter; Franconia is endeavoring to quiet them.  The poor slave fears the ruffian’s pursuit, trembles at each foot-fall upon the door-sill, and piteously turns to her old friend for protection.  Blowers, maddened with disappointment, would rather sacrifice her to infamy than sell her for money to a good master.  The price of a pretty slave is no object with this boasting democrat,—­the gratification of his carnal desires soars supreme.  Rosebrook knows this, as the abject woman does to her sorrow.

As Rosebrook and the stranger sit conversing upon the object of his mission, and the best way to effect it, this good woman returns leading by the arm a delicately-formed girl, whose blonde countenance is shadowed with an air of melancholy which rather adds to her charms than detracts from her beauty.  The stranger’s eye rests upon her,—­quickly he recognises Clotilda’s features, Clotilda’s form, and gentleness; but she is fairer than Clotilda, has blue eyes, and almost golden hair.  She hesitates as her eyes meet the stranger’s.  “Do not fear, my child,” speaks Franconia, whose slender figure follows her into the room.  Assured that the stranger is her friend, she is introduced to him, and modestly takes her seat on a chair by the window.  The stranger’s name is Maxwell, and on hearing it announced Franconia anticipated the pleasure of meeting with her old friend, through whose agency she effected Clotilda’s escape.  Advancing towards him with extended hand, she looks enquiringly in his face, saying, “Am I mistaken?” She shakes her head, doubtingly.  “No! it is not my friend Maxwell,” she continues.

“No!” rejoins the stranger; “he is my cousin:  by his directions I have come here.  I have brought a letter from his wife Clotilda, whose dear deliverer you were; and whose thoughts now daily recur to you, to your love and kindness to her, with undying brightness.”  “Ah!” interrupts Franconia, welcoming him with a fervent heart, “I knew Clotilda would never forget Annette;