University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

Julia's first exclamation on waking next morning, was, “I
am glad I'm not expected to go home with uncle to-day, and
see father make a precious fool of himself, as he surely
will.”

“How can you say so, Julia?” answered Fanny. “I
wish I was going, for I think I could smooth father down a
little, if he got to using too strong language.”

“Nonsense, Fan,” said Julia. “Why don't you confess
that you wish to go because that handsome Cameron is
going? Didn't I see how much he looked at you, and how
you blushed too? But no matter. I would get him, if I
were you!”

Julia was getting very generous, now that she thought
herself sure of Dr. Lacey. Further remark from her, however,
was prevented by the ringing of the breakfast bell.

“What shall I tell your parents?” said Mr. Middleton
to his nieces, as he stood in the hall, waiting for the driver
to open the carriage door and let down the steps.

Julia made no reply, but Fanny said, “Give them my
love, and tell them I am getting better every day, and shall
want to come home soon,” and then she added, in a lower
tone, “You will not laugh at father much, will you, or make
fun of him either, if he does act oddly?”

“God bless you, sweet girl,” said Mr. Middleton, stooping
to kiss the innocent face which looked up into his, with
so much earnestness. “For your sake, if for no other, your
father shall not be laughed at.”

As the carriage drove off, Julia turned to Fanny and said,
“Won't they have fun, though, with the old man? I can
fancy it all. Father's beard will probably be long enough
to do up in papers, and it will be a miracle if he does not
have on those horrid old bagging pants of his.”

Fanny was only too fearful that 'twould all be as Julia
predicted, but she made no answer, and soon returned to her
room.

We will now follow the carriage, which, with its load of
gentlemen was proceeding rapidly towards the house of our
friend Uncle Joshua. Mr. William Middleton, or Mr. Stafford,
as we will call him for a time, seemed to grow excited as he
approached nearer to a brother whose face he had not looked
upon for more than twenty long years.

“I say, boys,” said he, speaking to his companions,
“you must help me, and when I begin to ask Joshua concerning
his parents and brothers, you too, must talk, or he
will suspect I have some design in questioning him.”

The gentlemen all promised to do their best, except Frank,
who could promise nothing, because he knew nothing concerning
the man they were going to visit. His curiosity,
however, was roused, and forgetting the presence of Mr.
William Middleton, he asked, “Do they keep the old fellow
caged? And must we pay any thing for seeing him?”

These questions were greeted with a burst of laughter,
and Raymond said, “No—admittance is free, but you'll be
more amused to see him and hear him talk, than you would
in visiting Barnum's Museum!”

By this time the carriage had entered the woods, and
they soon came in sight of the house. Mr. Stafford leaned

from the window, and said, “Is it possible that my brother,
with all his wealth, lives in such a heathenish place as
this!”

“When you see him,” said Raymond, “you'll think the
nest just suited to the bird.”

They were now in the yard, which was so filled with
farming utensils, that the driver found it difficult to effect a
passage up to the door. The gentlemen were about concluding
to alight where they were, when Mr. Middleton was
heard calling out, “Ho, thar, driver, don't run agin that ar
ox-cart; turn a leetle to the right, can't ye? Now be keerful
and not run afoul of the plaguy lye leech! I b'lieve the
niggers would move the old hut, Josh and all, into the yard,
if they could only make a raise!”

Mr. Stafford and Frank looked eagerly out at the speaker,
who fully realized Frank's idea of him. His beard was
as long and black as a rapid growth of three weeks could
make it. As Julia had feared, he was dressed in his favorite
bagging pants, which hung loosely even 'round his huge
proportions, and looked as if fitted to some of his out buildings.
It was very warm, and he wore neither coat nor vest,
while his feet, whose dimensions we have mentioned before,
were minus either shoes or stockings. He appeared in the
doorway buttoning one of his suspenders. The truth was,
he had spied the carriage in the distance, and as his linen
was none the cleanest, he hastened to change it, and was now
putting the finishing touch to his toilet. When he caught
sight of the occupants of the carriage, he thought to himself,
“Thar's a heap on 'em. Nancy'll have to rout the whole
gang of niggers, field hands and all, to huntin hin's neests
after eggs enough for dinner.”

By this time the gentlemen had alighted, and Mr. Middleton
went forward to receive them. “How d'ye do, how

dye do?” said he, “I'm mighty glad you've come. I wish
you'd brought the whole city.”

“We came pretty near it, I think,” said Mr. Miller, at
the same time presenting Mr. Stafford and Mr. Cameron.

Mr. Middleton continued talking as if replying to Mr.
Miller's first remark. “No consequence, no consequence,
Mr. Stafford, Mr. Cameron, how are you? The more the
merrier. I s'pose they've told you all about Josh, so I needn't
make b'lieve any,—but come in,—the house looks better inside
than it does out. “Ho, Luce,” continued he, “where
the old boy is your mistress? Tell her thar's heaps of folks
here, and mind tell Aunt Judy to get us up a whalin dinner.”

Here he stopped to take breath a moment, and then proceeded.
“You must excuse my rig, gentlemen, or rather,
you must excuse what ain't rigged, mebby if I'd known all
you city buggers was comin', I'd a kivered my bar feet.”

“You go barefoot for comfort, I suppose,” said Mr.
Miller.

“Why, yes, mainly for that, I suppose,” answered Mr.
Middleton, “for I've got such fetched big corns on my feet,
that I ain't goin' to be cramped with none of your toggery.
My feet happen to be clean, for I washed 'em in the watering
trough this mornin'. How d'ye leave my gals?”

“They are well,” answered Mr. Miller, “or rather Julia
is, and Fanny is improving every day.”

“I've often wondered,” said Mr. Middleton, “what 'twas
ailded Sunshine when she was sick. She didn't seem to
have no disease in particular, and I reckon nothin's on her
mind, for all's straight between her and Dr. Lacey, as far as
I know.”

“Dr. Lacey,” repeated Frank, without knowing what he
said.

“Yes, Dr. Lacey, know him?” asked Mr. Middleton.

“No, sir,” answered Frank, and Ashton rejoined, “I imagine
he wishes Fanny had never known him.”

Mr. Middleton turned, and for a moment regarded Frank
intently. Frank stood the inspection manfully, and Mr. Middleton
said, “You are from New-York, hey? I like New-Yorkers,
and if Sunshine wasn't done promised to Dr. Lacey,
and never had seen him, and I liked you, I'd as soon you'd
have her as any body.”

Mr. Stafford now said that he was acquainted with Dr.
Lacey, and proceeded to speak of the pleasant time he had
spent with him. This occupied the time until dinner was
ready.

“Come, haul up,” said Mr. Middleton, “haul up; we
didn't expect so many to dinner, but the old table'll stretch,
and you must set clus; but don't none on you step on my
corns, for thunder's sake!”

Frank thought if his host kept on talking, he should not
be able to eat for laughing, but the old man was but just
getting into the merits of the case!

When his guests were seated, he said to Mr. Stafford,
“Your white neckcloth looks like you might belong to the
clargy. If you do, you can say a short prar over the eggs
and bacon, but Lord's sake be spry, for I'm blasted hungry!”

But for the remembrance of his promise to Fanny, Mr.
Stafford would have screamed. It is needless to say that he
declined his host's invitation, and the company began their
dinner.

Suddenly Mr. Stafford asked if Mr. Middleton had any
brothers.

“Yes,—no, or, that is, I had one once,” answered Mr.
Middleton, “but he's deader than a door nail afore this, I
reckon.”

“And what makes you think he is dead?” asked Stafford.

“Why, you see,” returned Mr. Middleton, “when our
old pap died, something in his will stuck crossways in Bill's
swaller, and he left college and put out to sea, and I hain't
heard from him in fifteen years.”

“Did he look like you?” said Raymond.

“He was four year younger than I,” answered Mr. Middleton,
“but no more like me than Sunshine's pet kitten is
like our old watch dog, Tige.” He was soft like in his ways
and took to book larnin mightily, and I'm,—but every
body knows what old Josh is. Hold on thar! Save the
pieces!” said he to Frank, who, unable longer to restrain
his mirth, had deluged his plate with coffee.

“Pray excuse me,” said Frank, mortified beyond measure
at his mishap.

His discomfiture was, however, somewhat relieved by his
companions, all of whom burst into a fit of laughter, in which
Mr. Stafford heartily joined, forgetful of his promise to Fanny.
By this time dinner was over and the company repaired to
the porch, where Ashton and Raymond betook themselves
to their cigars, while Mr. Middleton puffed away at his old
cob pipe.

Mr. Stafford at length resumed the dinner table conversation,
by saying, “If I were you, Mr. Middleton, I would
not give up my brother yet; `Hope on, hope ever,' is my
motto.”

“Hope on,” repeated Mr. Middleton. “I have hoped on
till I'm tired on't, and yet by spells, I have dreams in which
it seems like my brother was alive and had come back, and
then my old gourd shell of a heart gives a thunderin' thump
and fetches me up wide awake. I hate dreams mightily,
for it takes me an allfired while to get to sleep all over, and
when I do, I hate to be waked up by a dream.”

“I hope you'll live to see your brother, though,” said
Frank.

“No I shan't,” answered Mr. Middleton, again filling his
cob pipe. “Every thing that I loved has always died.”

“Have you lost many friends?” asked Mr. Stafford.

“Considerable many,” said Mr. Middleton, “considerin'
how few I ever had. First, thar was mother died, when Bill
and I was little boys; I remember how we cried when we
stood by her grave, and I was so feared Bill would bust his
jacket open, that I whispered to him not to take on so, for
I'd be his mother now. And then that night, which was
the longest and darkest I ever knew, we took turns rocking
and singing to our little baby sister, just as we had seen
mother do.”

Here he stopped a moment, and Raymond, who was
rather impatient, said, “Don't stop; go on.”

The old man wiped his eyes, and said, “Heavens and
arth, don't hurry a feller so, can't you let him wait till the
big bumps gits out of his throat, or would you have me
bellerin' here like a calf?”

“Take your time, Mr. Middleton,” said Mr. Stafford, who
was as much affected as his brother at the remembrance of
that sad night, when he first felt what it was to be motherless.

After an instant Mr. Middleton continued, “Directly that
sister got big enough, she was married and started to go to
England, but the vessel went to smash and the crew went to
the bottom. Poor gal, she always hated salt, but she's used
to it by this time, I reckon. Then thar was pap died next,
but he was old and gray-headed and sick-hearted like, and
wanted to go, but it made it jest as bad for me. Then thar
was Bill.”

Here Mr. Stafford moved his chair, so as to hide his face
from the speaker, who continued, “I did think I might have
one left, but 'twasn't to be. He went too, and Josh was left
alone.”

Mr. Middleton cleared his throat a little, refilled his cob
pipe, and proceeded. “The Lord gin me two gals, and then
he sent me as noble a boy as ever was, I don't care where
t'other comes from. He wasn't mine, but I loved him all
the same. You, Mr. Miller, knew him, but you didn't know,
—no, nor begin to know, how old Josh loved him, and what
a tremendous wrench it gin my old heart when I come home
and found he was dead. But, Lord, hain't he got a fine
grave stun though! You go to the cimetry at Frankford,
and you'll see it, right along side of Leftenant Carrington's,
whose widow's a flirtin' with every body in creation any way,
and Frankford sartin.”

“I've now told you of all that's dead,” continued he,
striking the ashes out of his pipe and wiping it on his bagging
trousers, “but I hain't told you yit what troubles me
more than all. Thar's something haunts old Josh, that
makes his heart stand still with mortal fear. Thar's Sunshine,
dearer to her old pap than his own life. You've all
seen her, and I reckon she's made some of your hearts ache;
but something's come over her. She seems delicate like,
and is fadin' away.”

Here two big tears, that couldn't be mistaken, rolled
down Mr. Middleton's cheek, as he added emphatically,
“and by Jehu, if Sunshine goes, old Josh'll bust up and go
too!”

The winding up of Uncle Joshua's story, was so odd and
unexpected, that all the gentlemen, Mr. Stafford included,
laughed loudly.

“'Taint no laughin' matter, boys,” said Mr. Middleton,
“and so you'll all think if you ever have a gal as sweet and
lovin'-like as Sunshine.”

Here Mr. Stafford said, “Your sister's name was Fanny,
I believe.”

“Yes, 'twas; who told you?” asked Mr. Middleton.

“No one. I knew it myself,” answered Mr. Stafford,
looking his brother earnestly in the face.

Mr. Middleton seemed puzzled, and after closely scrutinizing
Mr. Stafford's features, he said, “Confound it, am I in
a nightmare? I thought for a minute,—but no, it can't be
neither, for you've got too thunderin' black a hide to be
Bill!”

Before Mr. Stafford replies to this remark we will take
the reader to the kitchen, where a group of negroes are assembled
round old Aunt Katy, and are listening with breathless
interest to what she is saying. Aunt Katy was so infirm
that she kept her bed for the greater part of the time, but on
this day she was sitting up, and from her low cabin window
had caught a view of the visitors as they alighted from the
carriage. When Mr. Stafford appeared, she half started from
her chair and said aloud, “Who upon airth can that be,
and whar have I seen him? Somewhar, sartin.”

It then occurred to her that she would go to the kitchen
and inquire who “that tall darkish-looking gentleman was.”
Accordingly she hobbled out to make the inquiry. She was
much disappointed when she heard the name. “No,” said
she, “'tain't nobody I ever knowed, and yet how like he is
to somebody I've seen.”

Not long after the old negress again muttered to herself,
“Go way now; what makes me keep a thinkin' so of Marster
William this mornin'? 'Pears like he keeps hauntin'
me.” Then rising she went to an old cupboard, and took
from it a cracked earthen teapot. From this teapot, she
drew a piece of brown paper, and opening it, gazed fondly
on a little lock of soft brown hair.

“Bless the boy,” said she, “I mind jest how he looked
when I cut this har from his head, the very day his mother
was buried. Poor Marster William,” continued she, “most
likely he's gone to 'tarnity 'fore this time.”

As she said this, tears, which were none the less sincere
because she who wept them belonged to Afric's sable race,
fell upon the once bright but now faded lock of hair, which
the faithful creature had for more than forty years preserved
as a memento of him whom she had long since looked upon
as dead, although she had never ceased to pray for him, and
always ended her accustomed prayer, “Now I lay me—”
with the petition that “God would take keer of Marster William
and bring him home again.” Who shall say that
prayer was not answered?

Going back to her seat, she took up her knitting and
was soon living over the past, when she was young and dwelt
with “the old folks at home.” Suddenly there came from
the house the sound of merry laughter. High above all the
rest was a voice, whose clear, ringing tones made Katy start
up so quickly that, as she afterwards described it, “a sudden
misery cotched her in the back, and pulled her down quicker.”
There was something in the sound of that laugh, which
seemed to Katy like an echo of the past. “But,” thought
she, “I'm deaf like, and mebby didn't hear straight. I'll go
to the kitchen agin and hark.”

In a few minutes she was in the kitchen and dropping
down on the meal chest as the first seat handy, she said,
“Ho, Judy, is you noticed the strange gentleman's laugh?”

“I hain't noticed nothing,” answered Judy, who chanced
to be out of sorts, because, as she said, “the white folks had
done et up every atom of egg; they didn't even leave her
the yaller of one!”

“Well, suthin in his laugh kerried me back to the old
plantation in Carlina, and I b'lieve, between you and me,
Judy, that Marster William's here,” said Katy.

“Marster William, Marster William; what on airth do
you mean?” asked Judy, forgetting the eggs in her surprise.

At the mention of “Marster William,” who was looked
upon as a great man, but a dead one, the little negroes
gathered round, and one of them, our old friend Bobaway,
said, “Oh, Laddy, I hope 'tis Marster William, for Marster
Josh'll be so tickled that he won't keer if we don't do nothin'
for a week; and I needn't milk the little red heifer nuther!
Oh, good, good!”

“You go long you Bob,” said Aunt Judy, seizing a lock
of his wool between her thumb and finger, “let me catch
you not milkin' the heifer, and I'll crack you.”

Again there was the sound of laughter, and this time
Judy dropped her dishcloth, while Katy sprang up saying,
“'Tis, I know 'tis, any ways I'll walk round thar as if for a
little airin', and I can see for myself.”

Accordingly old Katy appeared round the corner of the
house just as Mr. Middleton had spoken to his brother of his
color. The moment Mr. Stafford's eye rested on his old
nurse, he knew her. Twenty years had not changed her as
much as it had him. Starting up he exclaimed, “Katy, dear
old mammy Katy,” while she uttered a wild, exultant cry
of joy, and springing forward threw her thin, shrivelled arms
round his neck, exclaiming, “My darling boy, my sweet Marster
William. I knowed 'twas you. I knowed your voice.
You are alive, I've seen you, and now old Katy's ready to
die.”

White as ashes grew the face of Uncle Joshua. The
truth had flashed upon him, and almost rendered him powerless.
Pale and motionless he sat, until William freeing himself
from Aunt Katy, came forward and said, “Joshua, I am
William, your brother; don't you know me?”

Then the floodgates of Uncle Joshua's heart seemed unlocked,
and the long, fervent embrace, which followed between
the rough old man and his newly found brother, made more
than one of the lookers on turn away his face, lest his companions

should detect the moisture in his eyes, which seriously
threatened to assume the form of tears.

When the first joy and surprise of this unexpected meeting
was over, Mr. Joshua Middleton said, as if apologizing
for his emotion, “I'm dumbly afeared, Bill, that I acted
mighty baby like, but hang me if I could help it. Such a
day as this I never expected to see, and yet I have lain awake
o'nights thinkin' mebby you'd come back. But such idees
didn't last long, and I'd soon give you up as a goner.”

“That's jest what I never did,” said Aunt Katy, who still
stood near.

In the excitement of the moment, she had forgotten that
she had long thought of “Marster William” as dead; she
continued, “A heap of prars I said for him, and it's chiefly
owin' to them prars, I reckon, that he's done fished up out o'
the sea.”

“I've never been in the sea yet, Aunt Katy,” said Mr.
Middleton, desirous of removing from Aunt Katy's mind the
fancy that any special miracle had been wrought in his behalf.

“Whar in fury have you been, and what's the reason you
hain't writ these dozen years? Come, give us the history of
your carryin's on,” said Mr. Joshua Middleton.

“Not now,” answered his brother. “Let us wait until
evening, and then you shall hear my adventures; now let me
pay my respects to your wife.”

While he was introducing himself to Mrs. Middleton,
Katy went back to the kitchen, whither the news had preceded
her, causing Bob in his joy to turn several summersets.
In the last of these, he was very unfortunate, for his
heels, in their descent, chanced to hit and overturn a churn
full of buttermilk! When Aunt Katy entered, she found
Bob bemoaning the back ache, which his mother had un
sparingly given him! Aunt Judy herself, having cleared

away the buttermilk, by sweeping it out doors, was waiting
eagerly to know, “if Marster William done axed arter her.”

“Why, no, Judy,” said Katy, somewhat elated because
she had been first to recognize and welcome the stranger.
“Why, no, I can't say he did, and 'tain't nateral like that he
should set so much store by you, as by me. Ain't I got
twenty years the start on you, and didn't I nuss him, and
arter his mother died, didn't I larn him all his manners?”

Aunt Judy was on the point of crying, when who should
walk in but “Marster William” himself. “I am told,” said
he, “that Judy is here, Judy, that I used to play with.”

“Lor bless you, Marster William,” exclaimed Judy, at
the same time covering his hand with tears and kisses, “I's
Judy, I is, I know'd you hadn't done forgot me.”

“Oh, no, Judy,” said he, “I have not forgotten one of
you, but I did not know whether you were living or not, so
I did not bring you presents, but I'll get you something in a
few days. Meantime take this,” said he, slipping a silver
dollar into the hands of Aunt Katy and Aunt Judy, each of
whom showered upon him so many blessings and “thankies”
that he was glad to leave the kitchen and return to his companions,
who were talking to Uncle Joshua without getting
any definite answer.

His brother's sudden return had operated strangely upon
him, and for a time he seemed to be in a kind of trance.
He would draw his chair up closely to William, and, after
gazing intently at him for a time, would pass his large rough
hand over his hair, muttering to himself, “Yes, it is Bill, and
no mistake, but who'd a thought it?”

At last rousing himself he turned to his other guests, and
said, “You mustn't think hard on me, if I ain't as peart and
talkin' like for a spell; Bill's comin' home has kinder oversot
the old man, and I'm thinkin' of the past when we's little
boys and lived at home on pap's old plantation afore any on
us was dead.”

The young gentlemen readily excused the old man's
silence, and when the slanting beams of the setting sun betokened
the approach of night, they all, with the exception
of Ashton, began to speak of returning home. Mr. Middleton
urged them to stay, saying, “What's the use of goin'?
Nancy's got beds enough, I reckon, and will be right glad
of a chance to show her new calico kiverlids, and besides we
are goin' to have some briled hen in the morning, so stay.”

But as the next day was the Sabbath, the gentlemen declined
the invitation, and bidding their host “good bye,”
they were soon on their way homeward, each declaring that
he had seldom spent a pleasanter day. As they can undoubtedly
find their way to Frankfort without our assistance,
we will remain at Uncle Joshua's together with Mr. William
Middleton and Ashton. The latter felt as if he had suddenly
found an old friend, and as nothing of importance required
his presence at home, he decided to remain where he was
until Monday.

That evening, after every thing was “put to rights” and
Mr. Middleton had yelled out his usual amount of orders, he
returned to the porch, where his brother and Ashton were
still seated. Lighting his old cob pipe, he said, “Come,
Bill, Nancy'll fetch out her rockin' cheer and knittin' work,
and we'll hear the story of your doin's in that heathenish
land, but be kinder short, for pears like I'd lived a year to-day,
and I feel mighty like goin' to sleep.”

After a moment's silence Mr. Middleton commenced: “I
shall not attempt to justify myself for running away as I did,
and yet I cannot say that I have ever seriously regretted
visiting those countries, which I probably shall never look
upon again. I think I wrote to you, Joshua, that I took
passage in the ship Santiago, which was bound for the East
Indies. Never shall I forget the feeling of loneliness which
crept over me, on the night when I first entered the city of

Calcutta, and felt that I was indeed alone in a foreign land,
and that more than an ocean's breadth rolled between me
and my childhood's home. But it was worse than useless to
dwell upon the past. I had my fortune to make, and I began
to look about for some employment. At last I chanced
to fall in with an intelligent Spaniard, Signor de Castello,
He was a wealthy merchant, and for several years had resided
in Calcutta. As he spoke the English language fluently, I
found no trouble in making his acquaintance. He seemed
pleased with me, and offered me the situation of clerk in his
counting-room. I accepted his offer, and also became an inmate
of his dwelling, which was adorned with every conceivable
luxury. His family consisted of himself and his
daughter, Inez.”

At the mention of Inez, Ashton half started from his
chair, but immediately reseating himself, listened while Mr.
Middleton proceeded: “I will not attempt to describe Inez,
for I am too old now to even feel young again, by picturing
to your imagination the beauty of that fair Spaniard. I will
only say that I never saw one, whose style of beauty would
begin to compare with hers, until I beheld my niece, Julia.”

“Lord knows, I hope she wan't like Tempest,” said Uncle
Joshua, at the same time relieving his mouth of its overflowing
contents.

“I do not know whether she were or not,” answered Mr.
Middleton, “I only know that Inez seemed too beautiful, too
gentle, for one to suspect that treachery lurked beneath the
soft glance of her dark eyes. I know not why it was, but
Castello, from the first seemed to entertain for me a strong
friendship, and at last, I fully believe the affection he felt for
me, was second only to what he felt for his daughter. But
he could not remain with us, and in eighteen months after
I first knew him, he took one of the fevers common to that
sultry climate, and in the course of a few days he was dead.

I wrote to you of his death, but I did not tell you that he
left a will, in which all his immense wealth was equally
divided between myself and Inez. He did not express his
desire that we should marry, but I understood it so, and
thenceforth looked upon Inez as belonging exclusively to
myself.”

“You didn't marry her, though, I take it,” said Joshua,
making a thrust at an enormous musquito, which had unceremoniously
alighted upon his brawny foot.

“No,” answered William, “I did not marry her, but 'twas
not my fault. She played me false. Six months after her
father's death we were to be married. The evening previous
to our wedding arrived. I was perfectly happy, but Inez
seemed low-spirited, and when I inquired the cause she answered,
“Nothing, except a little nervous excitement.” I
readily believed her; but when the morning came the cause
of her low spirits was explained. The bird had flown, with a
young Englishman, Sir Arthur Effingham, who had been a
frequent guest at my house.”

“That was one of Tempest's capers to a dot,” said Uncle
Joshua, “but go on, Bill, and tell us whether the disappointment
killed you or not.”

So William proceeded: “Instead of my bride, I found a
note from Inez, in which she asked pardon for what she had
done, saying she had long loved Sir Arthur, but did not dare
tell me so. They were going to England, whither she wished
me to send a part of her portion, as her husband was not
wealthy. I understood Inez's character perfectly, and could
readily see that she preferred a titled, but poor Englishman,
to a wealthy, but plain American, so I gave her up quietly.”

“And was mighty lucky to get shut of her so,” interrupted
Joshua.

“From that time,” continued William, “I gave up all
thoughts of marriage, and devoted myself to increasing my

wealth, and spending it for my own comfort and the good
of others. Twelve years ago I chanced to go on board the
English vessel Delphine, and there I found our friend Ashton.”

“Look at him, for gracious' sake,” said Uncle Joshua,
pointing towards Ashton. “Why, man, you are as white as
one of Judy's biscuits; what ails you?”

“Nothing,” answered Ashton, who really was much affected
by Mr. Middleton's narrative; but he said, “I am only
thinking of the long, weary days I passed in the Delphine
before Mr. Middleton kindly cared for me.”

This seemed quite natural, and Mr. Middleton continued:
“Ashton was wasted to a mere skeleton by ship fever, and
my heart yearned towards him. Perhaps I felt a stronger
sympathy for him when I learned that he was an American.
He, like myself, had run away. The vessel, in which he had
embarked, had been wrecked, and he, with two others, were
saved in a small boat. For days they floated over the broad
expanse of waters, until at length the Delphine picked them
up, and brought them to India. I had Ashton removed to
my house, but as soon as he recovered, he too took French
leave of me. From that time I lived alone. I wrote to you
frequently, but got no answer. My letters must have been
lost, but I then concluded you were dead. At last I began
to have such an ardent desire to tread my native soil once
more that I disposed of my property and set out for home,
so here I am and have told you my history; what do you
think of it?”

There was no answer save the sound of heavy breathing;
Uncle Joshua had probably got to sleep “all over.” The
cessation of his brother's voice awoke him, and rubbing his
eyes he said, “Yes, yes, Ashton had the ship fever. I hope
he can't give it now, for I'm mortal feared on't.”

Ashton assured him there was no danger, and then, turning
to William, said, “Have you ever heard from Inez?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Middleton. “About a year after her
marriage, I heard of the birth of a daughter, whom she called
Inez Middleton. I have heard of them once or twice since,
but not recently.”

After a moment's silence, Ashton, with some hesitation,
said, “If I mistake not, I know Inez Effingham well.”

“You know Inez, my Inez,—where,—how,—tell me all,”
said Mr. Middleton, grasping Ashton's hand as if a new link
were suddenly added to the chain of friendship, which already
bound them together.

“You probably remember,” said Ashton, “that when I
left you so suddenly, there was an American vessel in port.
I was anxious to return home, but fancied you would oppose
it, so I left you without a word, and went on board the ship.
During the voyage, I found that one of the crew was from
my own native town. I eagerly inquired after my parents
and the little sister Nellie, whom you so often heard me
mention: judge of my feelings when told that they were all
dead. In the agony of the moment I attempted to throw
myself overboard, but was prevented. From that time all
desire to return was gone, and when at last we stopped at
one of the ports in England, I left the vessel, determining to
try my fortune in the mother country.”

“But Inez,” said Mr. Middleton, “What of Inez?”

“I will tell you,” answered Ashton. “After remaining
in England some years, I became acquainted with her father,
Sir Arthur Effingham, who lived about forty miles from London.
He invited me to visit his house, and there I first saw
Inez and her mother. To know Inez was to love her, but I
could not hope to win the haughty Englishman's daughter,
and besides she was so young that I did not believe I had
made any impression upon her. But encouraged by Lady

Effingham, I at length ventured to ask Inez of her father.
I did not wish to marry her then, as she was only fourteen,
but her father spurned me with contempt, and bade me never
again enter his house. I obeyed, but tried many times to
procure an interview with Inez. I succeeded, and told her I
was about to leave England for America, but should never
forget her. I would not suffer her to bind herself to me by
any promise, but expressed my belief that at some future
time she would be mine. It is three years since we parted.
I came immediately to America, but I could not bear to return
to my old home and see it occupied by others, so I wandered
this way, and at last settled in Frankfort as a merchant.”

Here he stopped, and Mr. Middleton said, “You have
not told me of the mother. Does she still live?”

Ashton answered, “She was living when I left England,
but Inez has since written to me of her death.”

“That will do, Ashton; that will do. I do not wish to
hear any more now,” said William.

While Mr. Middleton and Ashton were relating their adventures,
Aunt Katy was busily engaged in superintending
the arrangement of “Marster William's” sleeping room.
Mrs. Middleton had bidden Judy to see that every thing was
put in order, but Aunt Katy seemed to think nothing would
be done right unless she had an oversight of it. So she was
walking back and forth, consulting with Judy a little and
ordering her a good deal.

“Now, Judy,” said she, “hain't you no more idees of
ilegance than to push the bedstead smack up agin the clarbuds;
just pull it out a foot or two, as old miss use to do.”

Judy complied with her request and she continued;
“Lordy sakes,—don't Miss Nancy know no better than to
put Marster William to sleep in sich coarse sheets,” at the
same time casting a rueful glance at the linen which Judy

had put upon the bed. “You set down, Judy,” said Aunt
Katy, “and I'll tend to the bed myself.”

So saying she hobbled off to her cabin and opening her
“old red chist,” drew from it a pair of half worn, but very
fine linen sheets. These she shook most lustily in order to
free them from the rose leaves, lavender sprigs, and tobacco,
which she had placed between their folds. With the former
she thought to perfume them, while the latter was put there
for the purpose of keeping out moths. The old creature had
heard that tobacco was good to keep moths from woollen,
and she knew of no reason why it would not answer every
purpose for linen.

“Thar,” said she, on returning to the house, “these begins
to look a leetle like Marster William. They was gin
to me by old marster, jest afore he died. They 'longed to
old miss, and if any one on us could read, I reckon we should
find her name on 'em somewhar writ in brawdery.”

When the bed and room were adjusted to her satisfaction,
she went down to the kitchen and took a seat there.
Here Aunt Judy found her about ten o'clock that night.

“What on airth you sittin' here for?” said she.

“Oh, I's only waitin' till Marster William gets a little
used to his room, afore I axes him how he likes it and does
he want any thing.”

Accordingly not long after Aunt Katy stole up stairs and
opening the door, called out, “Ho, Marster William, does
you want any thing, and is you got enough kiver?”

But “Marster William's” senses were too soundly locked
in sleep to heed the faithful creature, and after standing still
a moment, she said to herself, “I'm mighty feared he'll cotch
cold.”

So back she went to her cabin and from the same “red
chist” took a many colored patchwork quilt. This she
carried to the house and spread carefully over Mr. Middleton,

saying, “He won't be none too comfortable, and in the
mornin' he'll see it, and I'll tell him how I done pieced it
and quilted it my own self.”

The consequence of this extra covering was, that Mr.
Middleton awoke in the night, with the impression that he
was being suffocated in the hot climate of Calcutta! He
did not know that she, to whom he was indebted for his
warm berth, was now sleeping quietly and dreaming, “how
tickled Marster William would be when he knew she had
lent him her spar sheets and bedquilt!”