University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.
THE YANKEE PEDDLER.

The warm, balmy April day was drawing to a
close, and the rays of the setting sun shone like
burnished gold on the western windows of Redstone
Hall. It was very pleasant there now, for the early
spring flowers were all in biossom, the grass was
growing fresh and green upon the lawn, and the creeping
vines were clinging lovingly to the time-worn pillars,
or climbing up the massive walls of dark red
stone, which gave the place its name. The old negroes
had returned from their labors, and were lounging
about their cabins, while the younger portion looked
wistfully in at the kitchen door, where Dinah and
Hetty were busy in preparing supper. On the back
piazza several dogs were lying, and as their quick
ears caught the sound of a gate in the distance, the
whole pack started up and went tearing down the
avenue, followed by the furious yell of Bruno, who
tried in vain to escape from his confinement.

“Thar's somebody comin',” said Dinah, shading her
eyes with her hand, and looking toward the highway;
“somebody with somethin' on his back. You, Josh,
go after them dogs, afore they skeer him to death.”

Stuttering out some unintelligible speech, Josh
started in the direction the dogs had gone, and soon
came up to a tall six-footer, who, with short pantaloons,
a swallow-tailed coat, stove-pipe hat, sharp-pointed
collar, red necktie, and two huge boxes on his

back, presented a rather ludicrous appearance to the
boy, and a rather displeasing one to the dogs., who
growled angrily, as if they would pounce upon him at
once. The club, however, with which he had armed
himself kept them at bay, until Josh succeeded in
quieting them down.

“Ra-ally, now,” began our friend Ben, who vainly
imagined it necessary to put on a little, by way of
proving himself a genuine Yankee—“ra-ally, now,
boot-black, what's the use of keepin' sich a 'tarnal lot
o' dogs to worry a decent chap like me.”

It was Josh's misfortune to stammer much more
when at all excited, and to this interrogatory he
began, “Caw-caw-caw-cause ma-ma-mars wa-wa-want—”

“Great Heaven!” interrupted the Yankee, setting
down his pack and eyeing the stuttering negro as if
he had been the last curiosity from Barnum's—“will
you tell a fellow what kind of language you speak.”

“Spe-pe-pe-pects sa-sa-same ye-e-e you do,” returned
the negro, failing wholly to enlighten Ben, who rejoined
indignantly, “You go to grass with your
lingo;” and, gathering up his boxes, he started for the
house, accompanied by Josh and the dogs, the first of
which made several ineffectual attempts at conversation.

“Some nateral born fool,” muttered Ben, thinking
to himself that he would like to examine the boy's
mouth and see what ailed it.

After a few minutes they entered the yard, and
came up to the other blacks, who were curiously
watching the new comer. Seating himself upon the
steps and crossing one leg over the other, Ben swung
his cowhide boot forward and back, and greeted them
with, “wall, uncles, and ants, and cousins, how do you
dew, and how do you find yourselves this afternoon?”

“Jest tolerable, thanky,” answered uncle Phil, and
Ben continued, “wall, health is a great blessing to them

that hain't got it. Do you calkerlate that I could stay
here to night? I've got lots o' gewgaws,” pointing to
his boxes—“hankerchers, pins, ear-rings and a red and
yeller gownd that'll jest suit you, old gall,” nodding to
Dinah, who muttered gruffly, “if he calls me old
what'll he say to Hetty?”

Ben saw he had made a mistake, for black women
no more care to be old than their fairer sisters, and he
tried to make amends by complimenting the indignant
lady until she was somewhat mollified, when he
asked again if he could stay all night?

“You, Josh,” said Uncle Phil, “go and tell yer
master to come here.”

“Whew-ew,” whistled Ben, “if you're goin' to send
that stutterin' critter, I may as well be joggin', for no
human can make out his rigmarole.”

But Ben was mistaken. Josh's dialect was well understood
by Frederic, who came as requested, and,
standing in the door, gazed inquisitively at the singular
looking object seated upon his steps, and apparently
oblivious to everything save the sliver he was
trying to extract from his thumb with a large pin, ejaculating
occasionally, “gaul darn the pesky thing.”

Nothing, however, escaped the keen grey eyes
which from time to time peered out from beneath the
stove-pipe hat. Already Ben had seen that Redstone
Hall was a most beautiful spot, and he did not blame
Frederic for disliking to give it up. He had selected
Dinah and Phil from the other blacks, and had said
that the baby, who, with a small white dog, was disputing
its right to a piece of fat bacon and a chicken
bone, was Victoria Eugenia. Josh he identified by his
name, and he was wondering at Marian's taste in caring
to hear from him, when Frederic appeared, and
all else was forgotten in his eagerness to inspect the
man “who could make a gal bite her tongue in two
and yank her hair out by the roots, all for the love of
him.”

Frederic seemed in no hurry to commence a conversation,

and during the minute that he stood there
without speaking, Ben had ample time to take him
in from his brown hair and graceful mustache down to
his polished boots.

“Got up in considerable kind of good style,” was
Ben's mental comment, as he watched the young man
carelessly scraping his finger nail with a pen-knife.

“Did you wish to see me?” Frederic said at last,
and with another thrust at the sliver, Ben stuck his
pin upon his coat sleeve, and reversing the position of
his legs, replied, “wall, if you're the boss, I guess I
dew; I'm Ben Butterworth from down East, and I've
got belated, and bein' there ain't no taverns near I
want to stay all night, and pay in money or notions.
Got a lot on 'em, besides some tip top muslin collars
for your wife, Mrs., what do you call her?” and the
gray eyes glistened themselves upon the face, which
for a single instant was white as marble—then the
hot blood came rushing back, and Frederic replied,
“there is no wife here, sir, but you can stay all night
if you please. Will you walk in?” and he led
the way to the sitting-room, followed by Ben, who had
obtained what to him was the most important information
of all.

The night was chilly, and in the grate a cheerful
coal fire was burning, casting its ruddy light upon the
face of a little girl, who, seated upon a stool, with
her hair combed back from her sweet face, her waxen
hands folded together and her strange brown eyes
fixed upon the coals as if she were looking at something
far beyond them, seemed to Ben what he had
fancied angels in heaven to be. It was not needful for
Mr. Raymond to say, “Alice, here is a peddler come
to stay all night,” for Ben knew it was the blind girl,
and his heart gave a great throb when he saw her sitting
there so beautiful, so helpless, and so lonely, too,
for he almost knew that she was thinking of Marian,
and he longed to take her in his arms and tell her of
the lost one.

Motioning him to a chair, Frederic went out, leaving
them together. For some minutes there was perfect
silence, while Ben sat looking at her and trying hard
to keep from crying. It seemed terrible to him that
one so young should be blind, and he wanted to tell
her so, but he dared not, and he sat so still that Alice
began to think she was alone, and, resuming her former
thoughts, whispered softly to herself, “oh, I wish
she would come back.”

“Blessed baby,” Ben had almost ejaculated, but
he checked himself in time, and said instead, “little
gal.”

Alice started, and turning her ear, seemed waiting
for him to speak again, which he did soon.

“Little gal, will you come and sit in my lap?”

His voice was gentle and kind, but Alice did not
care to be thus free with a stranger, so she replied,
“I reckon I won't do that, but I'll sit nearer to you,”
and she moved her stool so close by him that her head
almost rested on his lap.

“You must 'scuse me,” she said, “if I don't act like
other children do—I'm blind.”

Very tenderly he smoothed her silken hair, and as
he did so, she felt something drop upon her forehead.
It was a tear, and wiping it away, she said:

“Man, be you hungry and tired, or what makes you
cry?”

“I'm cryin' for you, poor, unfortunate lamb;” and
the tender-hearted Ben sobbed out aloud.

“Oh, I wouldn't, I wouldn't,” said the distressed
child—“I'm used to it. I don't mind it now.”

The ice was fairly broken, and a bond of sympathy
established between the two.

“He must be a good man,” Alice thought; and
when he began to question her of her home and friends,
she replied to him readily.

“You haven't no mother, nor sister, nor a'nt, nor
nothin', but Mr. Raymond and Dinah,” said Ben, after

they had talked awhile. “Ain't there no white women
in the house but you?”

“Yes, Mrs. Huntington and Isabel. She's my governess,”
answered Alice; and, conscious of a pang,
Ben continued:

“Mr. Raymond sent for 'em, I s'pose?”

“No,” returned Alice. “They came without sending
for—came to visit, and he hired them to stay. Mrs.
Huntington keeps house.”

At this point in the conversation there was a rustling
of garments in the hall, and a splendid, queenly
creature swept into the room, bringing with her such
and air of superiority that Ben involuntarily hitched
nearer to the wall, as if to get out of sight.

“Je-ru-sa-lem! ain't she a dasher?” was his mental
exclamation; and, in spite of himself, he followed her
movements with an admiring glance.

“Taking a chair, she drew it to the fire, and, without
deigning to notice the stranger, she said, rather
reprovingly,

“Alice, come here.”

The child obeyed, and Ben, determined not to be
ignored entirely, said:

“Pretty well this evenin', miss?”

“How, sir?” and the black eyes flashed haughtily
upon him.

Nothing abashed, he continued: “As't you if you're
pretty well, but no matter, I know you to be by your
looks. I've got a lot of finery that I know you want.”
And on opening his boxes, he spread out upon the
carpet the collars and under-sleeves, which had been
bought with a view to this very night. Very disdainfully
Isabel turned away, saying she never traded with
peddlers.

“I wonder if you don't,” returned Ben, with imperturbable
gravity. “Wall, now, seein' it's me, buy
somethin', dew. Here's a bracelet that can't be beat,”
and he held up to view Marian's soft hair, which, in
the bright firelight, looked singularly beautiful.

Isabel did unbend a little now. There was no sham
about that, she knew, and, taking it in her hand, she
tried to clasp it on her round, white arm; but it would
not come together. It was not made for her!

“It isn't large enough,” said she; “it must have
been intended for some child.”

“Shouldn't wonder if you'd hit the nail right on the
head,” returned Ben, and taking the bracelet he continued,
“Mebby 'twas meant for this wee one—who
knows?” and he fastened it on Alice's slender wrist.
“Fits to a T,” said he, “and you have it, too. Them
clasps is little hearts, do you see?”

Frederic now entered the room, and holding up her
arm, Alice said, “Look, is it pretty?”

“Yes, very,” he replied, bending down to examine
it, while Ben watched him narrowly, wondering how
he would feel if he knew from whose tresses that braid
was made.

“Harnsome color, ain't it, Square?” he said, holding
Alice's hand a little more to the light, and continuing,
“Now there's them that don't like red hair,
but I swan I've seen some that wan't so bad. Now
when it curls kinder—wall, like a gimblet, you know.
I've got a gal to hum I call my sister, and her hair's as
nigh this color as two peas, or it was afore 'twas shaved.
She's been awful sick with the heart disorder, and
fever, and I tell you, Square, if you'd o' seen her pitchin'
and divin', and rollin' from one end of the bed to
t'other, bitin' her tongue and yankin' out her hair by
han'fuls, I rather guess you'd felt kinder streaked. It
made a calf of me, though I didn't feel so bad then as
when she got weaker, and lay so still that we held a
feather to her lips to see if she breathed.”

“Oh, did she die?” asked Alice, who had been an
attentive listener.

“No,” answered Ben, “she didn't, and the thankfullest
prayer I ever prayed was the one I made in the
buttery, behind the door, when the doctor said she
would get well.”

Supper was announced, and putting up his muslins,
Ben followed his host to the dining-room. Alice, too,
was at the table, the bracelet still upon her wrist, for
she liked the feeling of it. “And she did so wish it
was hers.”

“I shall have to buy it for you, I reckon,” said Frederic,
and he inquired its price.

“Wall, now,” returned Ben, “if 'twas any body but
the little gal, I should say five dollars, but bein' it's
hers, I'd kinder like to give it to her.”

This, however, Frederic would not suffer. Alice
would not keep it, he said, unless he paid for it, and
he put a half eagle into the hand of the child, who
offered it to Ben. For a moment, the latter hesitated,
then thinking to himself, “Darnt it all, what's the use.
If Marian goes to school, as I mean she shall, she'll
need a lot of money, and what I get out o' him is clear
gain,” he pocketed the piece, and the bracelet belonged
to Alice.

After supper, Ben sat down by the fire in the dining-room,
hoping the family would leave him with Alice,
and this they did ere long, Isabel going to the piano,
and Frederic to the library to answer letters, while
Mrs. Huntington gave some directions for breakfast.
These directions were merely nominal, however, for
Dinah, to all intents and purposes, was mistress of the
household, and she came in to see to the supper dishes,
which were soon cleared away, and Ben, as he wished,
was alone with Alice. The bracelet seemed to be a
connecting link between them, for Alice was not in the
least shy of him now, and when he asked her again to
sit in his lap, she did so readily.

“That Miss Isabel is a dreadful han'some gal,” he began;
“I should s'pose Mr. Raymond would fall in love
with her.”

No answer from Alice, whose sightless eyes looked
steadily into the fire.

“Mebby he is in love with her.”

No answer yet, and mentally chiding himself

for his stupidity in not striking the right vein, Ben
continued:

“I wonder he hain't married afore this. He must be
as much as twenty-five or six years old, and so han'
some too!”

“He has been married,” and the little face of the
speaker did not move a muscle.

“Now you don't say it,” returned Ben. “A widower,
hey? How long sence he was married?”

“A few months,” and the long eye-lashes quivered
in the firelight just a little.

“I want to know—died so soon—poor critter. Tell
me about her, dew. You didn't know her long, so I
s'pose you couldn't love her a great sight?”

The brown eyes flashed up into Ben's face, and the
blood rushed to Alice's cheek, as she replied “Me not
love Marian! Oh, I loved her so much!”

The right chord was touched at last, and in her own
way Alice told the sad story—how Marian had left
them on her bridal night, and though they searched
for her everywhere, both in the river and through the
country, no trace of her could be found, and the conviction
was forced upon them that she was dead.

“Je-ru-sa-lem! I never thought of that!” was Ben's
involuntary exclamation; but it conveyed no meaning
to Alice, and when he asked if they still believed her
dead, she answered:

“I don't quite believe Frederic does. I don't, any
way. I used to, though, but now it seems just like she
would come back,” and turning her face more fully
toward him, Alice told how she had loved the lost one,
and how each day she prayed that she might come
home to them again.

“I don't know as she was pretty,” she said, “but
she was so sweet, so good, and I'm so lonesome without
her,” and down Alice's cheeks the big tears rolled,
while Ben's kept company with them and fell upon
her hands.

“Man, don't you cry a heap?” she asked, shaking the

round drops off and wondering why a perfect stranger
should care so much for Marian.

“I'm so plaguy tender-hearted that I can't help
it,” was Ben's apology, as he blew his nose vigorously
upon his blue cotton handkerchief.

For a time longer he talked with her, treasuring up
blessed words of comfort for the distant Marian, and
learning also that Alice was sure Frederic would never
marry again until certain of Marian's death. He might
like Isabel, she admitted, but he would not dare make
her his wife till he knew for true what had become of
Marian.

“And he does know it, the scented up puppy,”
thought Ben. “He jest writ her that last insultin' thing
to kill her out and out; but he didn't come it, and till
he knows he did, he dassent do nothin'.”

This reasoning was very satisfactory to Ben, who,
having learned from Alice all that he could, began to
think it was time to cultivate the negroes, and putting
the child from his knee, he said “he guessed he'd go
out and see the slaves—mebby they'd like to trade a
little, and he must be off in the mornin'.”

Accordingly he started for the kitchen, where his
character had been pretty thoroughly dissected. A
negro from a neighboring plantation had dropped in on
a gossiping visit, and as was very natural, the conversation
had turned upon the peddler, whose peculiar appearance
had attracted much attention at the different
places where he had stopped. Particularly was this the
case at the house the black man Henry lived.

“He done ask a heap of questions about us colored
folks,” said Henry; “how many was there of us, how
old was we, and what was we worth, and when marster
axed him did he want to buy, he said “no, but way off
whar he lived he all us spoke in meetin', and them folks
was mighty tickled to hear suffin' 'bout niggers.' Ole
Miss say now't she done b'lieve he's an abolution come
to run some on us off,' case he look like one o' them
chaps down in the penitentiary.”

“Oh, Lord,” ejaculated Dinah, involuntarily hitching
her chair nearer to Victoria Eugenia, who lay in her
cradle.

Old Hetty, too, took alarm at once, and glancing
nervously at her own grandchild Dudley, a little boy
two years of age, who was stretched upon the floor,
“she hoped to goodness he wouldn't carry off Dud.”

“Jest the ones he'll pick for. He could hide a dozen
on em in them big boxes,” said Henry, and feeling
pleased at the interest he had awakened in the two old
ladies he proceeded to relate the stories he had heard
“'bout them fetched Yankees meddlin' with what didn't
consarn 'em,' and he advised Dinah and Hetty both
not to let the peddler get sight of the children for fear
of what might happen.

At this point Ben came out of the house with his huge
boxes. He was first discovered by Josh, who, delighted
with the fun, pointed mysteriously toward him and stuttered,
“Da-da-da 'e co-co-comes.”

“The Lord help us,” said Dinah and quick as thought
she seized the sleeping Victoria Eugenia and thrust
her into the churn as the nearest place of concealment.

The awakened baby gave a screech but Dinah stopped
its mouth with a piece of the licorice she always
carried in her pocket with her tobacco box and pipe.
Meantime Hetty, determined not to be outdone, caught
up Dud, and, opening the meal chest, tumbled him in,
telling him in fierce whispers “not to stir nor wink, for
thar was a man comin' to cotch him.”

Snatching a newspaper which lay on the floor, she
rolled it together and placed it under the lid, so as to
allow the youngster a breathing place. This done, she
resumed her seat just as Ben appeared, who, throwing
down his pack, accosted her with—

“Wall, a'nt, got your chores done? 'Cause if you have
I want to trade a little. I won't be hard on you,” he
continued, as he saw the forbidding expression of her
face. “I'll dicker cheap and take most any kind o'
dud for pay.”

Dicker and chores were Greek to old Hetty, but she
fully comprehended the word Dud. He meant her
DUD — the one in the meal chest—and she grasped
the handle of the frying pan, so as to be ready for what
might follow next.

“Let me show you some breastpins,” said Ben, looking
round for a chair.

They were all occupied, and as the mischievous Josh
pointed to the chest, Ben crossed over, and ere Hetty
was aware of his intention, seated himself quite as a
matter of course. But not long, for Hetty's dusky fist
flourished in the air, and, more than all, the smothered
cry of “Granny, granny, he done sot on me,” which
came from beneath him, landed him on the other side
of the room, where he struck against the churn; whereupon,
Victoria Eugenia set up another yell, which sent
him back to the spot where Josh's cowhides were performing
various evolutions by way of showing his delight.

“Thunder!” ejaculated Ben, looking first at the skirts
of his swallow-tail, then at the chest, from which Dud
was emerging, covered with meal, and then at the churn,
over the top of which a pair of little black hands and
a piece of licorice were visible, “what's the meaning
of all this?”

No explanation whatever was vouchsafed, and, to
this day, Ben does not know the reason why those negroes
were stowed away in such novel hiding places.

When the excitement had somewhat subsided, Ben
returned to his first intention, behaving so civilly that
the fears of the negroes gave way, and Dinah was so
well pleased with purchasing a brass pin at half price
that Ben ventured, at last to say:

“That little gal, Alice, has been tellin' me about
Mr. Raymond's marriage. Unluckly, wasn't he?
Shouldn't wonder though, if he had a kind of hankerin'
after that black-eyed miss. She's han'some as a picter.”

Dinah needed but this to loosen her tongue. She

had long before made up her mind that “Isabel was no
kind o' 'count;” and once the two had come to open
hostilities, Isabel accusing Dinah of being a “lazy, gossiping
nigger,” while Dinah, in return, had told her
“she warn't no better 'n she should be stickin' 'round
after Mars. Frederic, when nobody knew whether Miss
Marian was dead, or not.”

This indignity was reported to Frederic, who reproved
old Dinah, sharply; whereupon, she turned toward
him, and, to use her favorite expression, “gin him a
piece of her mind.”

After this it was generally understood that between
Dinah and Isabel here existed no very amicable state of
feeling, and when Ben spoke of the latter, the former
exploded at once.

“'Twas a burnin' shame,” she said, “and it mortified
her een-a-most to death to see the trollop a tryin' to
set to marster, when nobody know'd for sartin if his
fust wife was dead,”

“Marster's jest as fast as she,” interposed Hetty,
who seldom agreed with Dinah.

A contemptous sneer curled Dinah's lip as she said
to Ben, in a whisper:

“Don't b'lieve none o' her trash. Them Higginses
allus would lie. I hain't never seen Marster Frederic
do a single thing out o' the way, 'cept to look at her,
jest as Phil used to look at me when he was sparkin'.
I don't think that was very 'spectable in him, to be
sure, but looks don't signify. He dassen't marry her
till he knows for sartin t'other one is dead. He done
told Alice so, and she told me;” and then Dinah launched
out into praises of the lost Marian, exalting her
so highly that Ben tossed into her lap a pair of ear-rings
which she had greatly admired.

“Take them,” said he, “for standin' up for that poor
runaway. I like to hear one woman stick to another.”

Dinah cast an exulting glance at Hetty, who, nothing
daunted, came forward and said:

“Miss Marian was as likely a gal as thar was in Kentuck,

and she, for one, should be as glad to see her back
as some o' them that made sich a fuss about it.”

“Playin' 'possum,” whispered Dinah. “Them
Higginses in up to that.”

Ben probably thought so too, for he paid no attention
to Hetty, who, highly indignant started for Isabel,
and told her “how Dinah and that fetch-ed peddler
done spilt her character entirely.”

“Leave the room,” was Isabel's haughty answer.
“I am above what a poor negro and an ignorant Yankee
can say.”

“For the dear Lord's sake,” muttered the discomfited
Hetty; “wonder if she ain't a Yankee her own self.
'Spects how she done forgot whar she was raised,” and
Hetty returned to the kitchen a warmer adherent of
Marian than Dinah had ever been.

She, too, was very talkative now, and before nine
o'clock Ben had learned all that he expected to learn,
and much more. He had ascertained that no one had
the slightest suspicion of the reason why Marian went
away; that both Frederic and Isabel seemed unhappy;
that Dinah and Hetty, too, believed “thar was somethin'
warin' on thar minds;” that Frederic was discontented,
and talked seriously of leaving Redstone Hall
in care of an overseer, and moving, in the Autumn to
to his residence on the Hudson; that Hetty hoped he
would, and Dinah hoped he wouldn't, “'case if he did,
it would be next to impossible to get a stroke o' work
out o' them lazy Higginses.”

“I've got all I come for, I b'lieve,” was Ben's mental
comment, as he left the kitchen and returned to the
dining room, where he found Frederic alone. “I'll poke
his ribs a little,” he thought, and helping himself to a
chair, he began:

“Wall, Square, I've been out seein' your niggers.
Got a fine lot on 'em, and I shouldn't wonder if you
was wo'th considerable. Willed to you by your dad,
or was it a kind of a dowry come by your wife?
You're a widower, they say;” and the gray eyes looked

out at their corners, as Ben thought, “That'll make
him squirm, I guess.”

Frederic turned very white, but his voice was natural
as he replied:

“My father was called the richest man in the county,
and I was his only child.”

“Ah, yes, come to you that way,” answered Ben,
continuing after a moment. “There's a big house up
on the Hudson—to Yonkers—that's been shet up and
rented at odd spells for a good while, and somebody
told me it belonged to a Colonel Raymond, who lived
South. Mabby that's yourn?”

“It is,” returned Frederic, “and I expect now to go
there in the Fall.”

“I want to know. I shouldn't s'pose you could be
hired to leave this place.”

“I couldn't be hired to stay. There are too many
sad memories connected with it,” was Frederic's answer,
and he paced the floor hurriedly, while Ben continued:
Mabby you'll be takin' a new wife there?”

Frederic's cheek flushed as he replied:

“If I ever marry again, it will not be in years.
Would you like to go to bed, sir?”

Ben took the hint and replying, “I don't care if I
dew,” followed the negro, who came at Frederic's call,
up to his room, a pleasant, comfortable chamber, overlooking
the river and the surrounding country.

“Golly, this is grand!” said Ben, examining the different
articles of furniture, as if he had never seen anything
like it before.

The negro, who was Lyd's husband, made no reply,
but, hurrying down stairs to his mother-in-law, he told
her, “Thar was somethin' mighty queer about that
man, and if they all found themselves alive in the mornin,'
he should be thankful.”

Unmindful of breast-pin and ear-rings, Dinah became
again alarmed, and, bidding Joe see that Victoria Eugenia
was safe, she gathered up the forks and spoons,
and rolling them in a towel, tucked them inside her

straw tick, saying: “I reckon it'll make him sweat
some to hist me and Phil on to the floor;” which was
quite probable, considering that the united weight
of the worthy couple was somewhat over three hundred!

The morning dawned at last, and, with her fears
abated, Dinah washed the silver, made the coffee,
broiled the steak and fried the corn-meal batter-cakes,
which last were at first respectfully declined by Ben,
who admitted that they “might be fust-rate, but he
didn't b'lieve they'd set well on his stomach.”

Hetty, who was waiting upon the table, quickly divined
the reason, and whispered to him: “Lord bless
you, take some; I done sifted the meal!”

This argument was conclusive, and helping himself
to the light, steaming cakes, Ben thought, “I may as
well eat 'em, for 'taint no wus, nor as bad as them Irish
gals does to hum, only I happened to see it!”

Breakfast being over, he offered to settle his bill,
which he found was nothing.

“Now, ra-ally, Square,” he said, as Frederic refused
to take pay, “I allus hearn that Kentuckians was
mighty free-hearted, but I didn't 'spect you to give me
my livin'. I'm much obleeged to you, though, and I
shall have more left to eddicate that little sister I was
tellin' you 'bout. I mean to give her tip-top larnin',
and mebby sometime she'll come here to teach this
wee one,” and he laid his hand on Alice's hair.

The little girl smiled up in his face, and said, “Come
again and peddle here, won't you?”

“Wouldn't wonder if I turned up amongst you some
day,” was his answer; and bidding the family goodbye,
he went out into Bruno's kennel, for until this
minute he had forgotten that the dog was to be remembered.

“Keep away from dar,” called out Uncle Phil, while
Bruno growled savagely and bounded against the bars
as if anxious to pounce upon the intruder.

“I've seen enough of him,” thought Ben, and shaking

hands with Uncle Phil, he walked rapidly down
the avenue and out into the highway.

Marian, he knew, was anxious to hear of his success,
and not willing to keep her waiting longer than was
necessary, he determined to return at once. Accordingly,
while the unsuspecting inmates of Redstone
Hall were discussing his late visit and singular appearence,
he was on his way to the depot, where he took
the first train for Frankfort, and was soon sailing down
the Kentucky toward home.