Sanders is coming to supper; I reckon he knows how you can cook, for he jumped at the invitation. And then there's the little girl; we must have something nice and sweet for her," he went on.

"No, Mr. Jonas!" Lucindy exclaimed; "nothin' sweet fer dis chile; des a little bread an' milk, er maybe a little hot-water tea."

"Well, you know about that," remarked Jonas, with a sigh; "we shall have to get a nurse for the child, I reckon."

Lucindy drew a deep breath. "A nuss fer dat chile! Whar she gwineter stay at? Not in dis kitchen! not in dis house! not on dis lot! No, suh! Ef she do, she'll hafter be here by herse'f. I'll drive her off, an' den you'll go out dar on de porch an' call her back; an' wid dat, I'll say good bye an' far'-you-well! Yes, la! I kin stan' dis chile, here, an' I kin 'ten' ter what little ten'in' ter she'll need—but a new nigger on de place! an' a triflin' gal at dat! No suh, no suh! you'll hafter scuzen me dis time, an' de nex' time, too."

Old Jonas walked from one end of the kitchen to the other, his face puckered up with anger, and looking as if he were on the point of bursting into tears. "Well, by the livin' Jimminy! can't I do what I please in my own house? Can't I get my own niece a nurse if I want to?"

Lucindy placed both hands under her apron, and looked as if she were swelling up. "Yasser," she exclaimed; "yasser, an' yasser, an' yasser. An' whiles you're gittin' a nurse, don't let it 'scape off'n your min' dat you'll want a cook!" She turned to the child, and the tone of her voice couldn't have been more different if it had come from the lips of another woman: "Honey, don't git too close ter de stove; ef yo' frock ketches afire you won't need no nuss. Mr. Billy Sanders'll be a-knockin' at dat do' present'y, an' supper ain't nigh ready—an' dey won't be no supper ef I got ter be crowded outer my own kitchen."

Adelaide looked and listened, and finally she said: "Aunt Lucindy, Cally-Lou says she doesn't like to be where people are mad and quarreling. She's afraid she'll have to go off somewhere else."

"Whar is Cally-Lou, honey? an' how big is she?"

"Oh, she's lot's bigger than me," replied Adelaide, very primly, "and she's sitting on the floor right by me. She says that fussing gives her nervy posteration."

"You say dat Cally-Lou is settin' on de flo' by yo' side?" Lucindy asked, opening her eyes a little wider. "Den how come I can't see her?"

"Well," said Adelaide, turning her soft blue eyes on the negro woman, and speaking with what seemed to be perfect seriousness, "she isn't used to you yet, and then she has had such a bad day!"

Lucindy paused in her work and took a long look at the pretty face of the child. "I can't see her, honey, but dat ain't no reason she ain't dar whar you say she's at. Let 'lone dat, it's a mighty good reason why she is dar!"

After a little Adelaide went into the sitting-room, and there found her Uncle Jonas sitting in the twilight that came dimly through the windows. She crept to his side, and leaned her head with its long golden curls against his arm. She may have wondered why he failed to take her on his knee, but she said nothing, and he, being busy with some old, old thoughts that came back to him, was as silent as the fat china dog that sat peacefully by the fireplace.

Presently Lucindy came in to light the lamps, and saw the child standing by old Jonas. "Honey!" she exclaimed in a startled tone, "ain't you tired to death? Ain't yo' legs 'bout to give way fum under you? I bet you Cally-Lou done gone ter bed——"

"No," said Adelaide; "she's very tired, but she's standing up just like me." The next thing to happen was the entrance of Mr. Sanders, who seemed to bring the fresh breezes with him. He seized Adelaide in his arms, and carried her into the dining-room. When all were seated, Adelaide waited a moment, as though she was expecting something. Then she placed her little hands over her face, leaned her head nearly down upon the table, and said grace silently; and but for the audible amen, the men would never have guessed what she was doing.

"I hope you mentioned my name," said Mr. Sanders, with due solemnity.

The child paid no attention to the remark, nor did she even glance at any one at the table, until the genial guest turned to the host and made a polite inquiry. "Jonas, do you button these napkins on before or behind? I don't want to make any blunder if I can help it."

At this, Adelaide looked up and saw that Mr. Sanders was trying to tie a corner of the tablecloth around his neck. The sight was so unexpected that she gave forth a peal of the merriest laughter ever heard, and Lucindy gave a snort of discomfiture.

"I declar' ter gracious!" she exclaimed, "ef I ain't done gone and fergit de napkins!"

The oversight was soon remedied, and everything went along all right until Mr. Sanders, taking a spoon in his hand, said to the child:

"Miss Adelaide, I'll bet you and Cally-Lou can't do this."

He placed the spoon so far in his mouth that nothing could be seen but a small part of the handle. Lucindy had to leave the room, and the child laughed until the tears ran down her cheeks. When she could control herself, she said, reproachfully:

"Bishop, some day you'll choke yourself—you may ask anybody—and then what will the people do?"

PART II

It was curious how much interest Mr. Sanders began to take in the home life that the mere presence of Adelaide brought to old Jonas Whipple's house. He would walk in without knocking, sometimes just about tea-time, and the child would invariably ask him to stay. Then after tea, he would challenge old Jonas for a game of checkers, and Adelaide thought it was great fun to watch them, they were so eager to defeat each other. Mr. Sanders had long been the champion checker-player in that part of the country, and he was very much astonished to find that old Jonas was himself an expert. Sometimes Adelaide would watch the game, and the two men invariably appealed to her to settle any question or doubt that arose, such as which of the two made the last move, or whether old Jonas had slipped a man from the board.

Most frequently, however, Adelaide was busy with her own affairs, and when this was the case, the two men sat quietly together, sometimes talking and sometimes listening.

"The Bishop is here," Adelaide would say to Cally-Lou. Then it seemed that Cally-Lou would make some reply that could only be heard through the ears of the imagination, to which Adelaide would respond most earnestly: "Why of course he isn't asleep, 'cause I saw him wink both eyes just now"—and the conversation would go on, sometimes good-humouredly, and sometimes charged with pretended indignation. If there had been any telephones, Mr. Sanders would inevitably have said: "You can't make me believe thar ain't some un at the other eend of the line."

I would say it was all like a play on the stage, only it wasn't as small as that. A play on the stage, as you well know, has its times and places. It must come to an end within a reasonable time. The curtain comes down, the audience files out, laughing and chatting, or wiping its eyes—as the case may be—the actors run to their cheerless rooms to strip off their tinsel finery, then the lights are put out, and everything is left to the chill of emptiness and gloom. But this was not the way with the play at old Jonas's home. It began early in the morning—for