er exclamation of astonishment burst from the old lady's lips.

"If you will permit me to inquire, Uncle George, how old are you?"

"She warn see if I kin wuck--dat's what she's after," said George to
himself, with a confidential look at a young gentleman in a hunting
dress on the wall between two windows. Then he said:

"Well, I declare, mum, you got me dyah. I ixpec' I is mos ninety years
ole, I reckon I'se ol'er 'n you is--I reckon I is."

"Oh!" exclaimed Miss Jemima with a little start as if she had pricked
her finger with a needle.

"Marse Nat kin tell you," continued George; "if you don't know how ole
you is, all you got to do is to ax him, an' he kin tell you--he got it
all set down in a book--he kin tell how ole you is to a day."

"Dear, how frightful!" exclaimed Miss Jemima, just as the Major entered
somewhat hastily.

"He's a gone coon," said George Washington through the crack of the door
to the old gentleman in ruffles, as he pulled the door slowly to from
the outside.

The Major had left the young people in the dining-room and had come to
get a book to settle a disputed quotation. He had found the work and was
trying to read it without the ignominy of putting on his glasses, when
Miss Jemima accosted him.

"Major, your valet appears to be a very intelligent person."

The Major turned upon her.

"My 'valet'! Madam! I have no valet!"

"I mean your body servant, your butler"--explained Miss Jemima. "I have
been much impressed by him."

"George!--George Washington?--you mean George Washington! No, madam, he
has not a particle of intelligence.--He is grossly and densely stupid. I
have never in fifty years been able to get an idea into his head."

"Oh, dear! and I thought him so clever! I was wondering how so
intelligent a person, so well informed, could be a slave."

The Major faced about.

"George! George Washington a slave! Madam, you misapprehend the
situation. _He_ is no slave. I am the slave, not only of him but of
three hundred more as arrogant and exacting as the Czar, and as lazy as
the devil!"

Miss Jemima threw up her hands in astonishment, and the Major, who was
on a favorite theme, proceeded:

"Why, madam, the very coat on my back belongs to that rascal George
Washington, and I do not know when he may take a fancy to order me out
of it. My soul is not my own. He drinks my whiskey, steals my tobacco,
and takes my clothes before my face. As likely as not he will have on
this very