Monticello table with the
simplicity of a child, and the bearing of a general who sups with his
officers after a victorious field.

The unfolding of the petal was not missed by his companions. Adam
Gaudylock, with a glance, half shrewd and half affectionate, for the man
whom he had known from boyhood, sank into the opposite seat with a light
and happy laugh. It mattered little to Adam where he sat in life,
provided that it was before a window. The overseer, a worthy, plain man,
had a thought of old Gideon Rand, but, remembering in time Mr.
Jefferson's high opinion of the man now occupying his chair, sat down
and unfolded his damask napkin with great care. Mr. Pincornet, indeed,
raised his eyebrows and made a backward movement from the table, but at
that moment a mulatto boy appeared with a plate of waffles. The light
from the wax candles burned, too, in certain crimson decanters. "Sit
down, sit down, Mr. Pincornet!" said Rand, and the dancing master took
the remaining place.

An hour later Rand pushed back his heavy chair and rose from the table,
ending the meal with as little ceremony as he had used in beginning it.
"I shall go write to Mr. Jefferson," he announced, as the four passed
into the hall. "You, Adam, what will you do?"

"First I'll smoke and then I'll sleep," said Adam. The moonlight
streamed in upon them through the open hall door. "I'll smoke outside.
That's a southern moon.

"Kiss me, kiss me, flower o' night!
Madelon!
'Ware the voices, 'ware the light!
Madelon!

"Will you smoke with me, Mr. Bacon? I'd like to try the Monticello leaf."

"I have to go to the quarters for a bit," answered the overseer.
"There's sickness there. I'll join you later, Mr. Gaudylock."

He went whistling away. Adam sat down upon the broad steps whitened by
the moon, filled his pipe, struck a spark from his flint and steel, and
was presently enveloped in fragrant smoke. The dancing-master,
hesitating somewhat disconsolately in the hall, at last went also into
the moonlight, where he walked slowly up and down upon the terrace, his
thin, beruffled hands clasped behind his old brocaded coat. What with
the moonlight and the ancient riches of his apparel, and a certain lost
and straying air, he had the seeming of a phantom from some faint,
bewigged, perfumed, and painted past.

Lewis Rand paused for a moment before the door, and looked out upon the
splendid night, then turned and