He was past middle age. His hair was grizzled with patches of gray, and his face had an expression of settled melancholy rarely seen upon the negro countenance. He was dressed in a loose linen jacket and trousers, and his manner and appearance altogether denoted his station, which was that of confidential man and general servant, factotum to his master, Mr. Leslie. This man's name was Toby. He had served the planter faithfully for five-and-twenty years. "Mr. Leslie can see no one this evening," he said, as he approached Cora. "He will not refuse to see me," murmured the young girl; "he cannot deny himself to his daughter." "His daughter!" exclaimed the negro, with an irrepressible burst of enthusiasm; "his daughter, Miss Cora, that was away across the sea--yonder, in the free country. Cora, the child I used to nurse in the years that are gone by; ah, forgive me, forgive me, forgive the poor old negro slave who is almost wild at the sight of his young mistress!" The faithful creature fell on his knees at Cora's feet, and, clasping her hand in both his own, covered it with kisses. "You remember me, then?" said Cora. "I remember the little child that I used to carry in my arms, not the beautiful young lady from the happy English land; but the young lady has still the soft voice and the sweet smile of the little child, and she is not angry with poor Toby because he is beside himself with joy to see her once again." "Angry with you!" exclaimed Cora; "but tell me--my father, where is he? Do not detain me longer when I should rush into his dear arms!" "Your father--!" A sudden change came over the slave's manner. "Your father, Miss Cora! He thinks you still in the free English country, and when he hears that you have returned--" The negro paused, with an embarrassed countenance, as he uttered these words. "What then?" cried Cora. "If I have returned without his knowledge, am I not his daughter; and who, in his hour of sorrow, has a better right to be at his side?" "Yes, Miss Cora, but--" "Tell me where is he?" "In that room, Miss Cora," answered the negro, gravely, pointing to the door of the study. Without waiting for another word, Cora softly opened the door, and gliding into the room, stood for a moment mutely regarding her father. The Venetian shutters were closed, and a shaded lamp burned upon the planter's desk--a lamp that left the room in shadow, and threw its full light upon the care-worn face of Gerald Leslie. The papers before him lay unheeded on his desk, with a half-burned cigar by their side. His finely molded chin rested upon his hand, his brow was contracted by painful thoughts, and his dark brown eyes were fixed gloomily upon the ground. He had not heard Cora's entrance. The young girl crept softly to his side, and dropping on her knees at his feet, clasping her hands about his left arm, which hung loosely over the arm of his chair. "Father," she murmured, "dearest father!"