e arrival of the
parcels from London. There came after them presently a lithe young
negro boy of fifteen, not yet two years out of Africa. He was clad in
nothing but his native blackness, which was deemed sufficient for a
half-grown negro in that day. Mrs. Browne had sent black Jocko after
the others with orders to bring up her things "without waiting for the
gentlemen to get done talking."

But the gentlemen did not talk very long. The neighbor was desirous of
getting on to have the first telling of the news about the death of
Prince Frederick, and Mr. Browne was impatient to open the packet from
his factor.

"Good-by, Mr. Wickford. Come down and see us some time, and bring all
your family," he called as the neighbor's canoe shot away in answer to
the lusty paddle strokes of his men.

"I reckon we'll come, sir," answered the receding neighbor. "My wife'll
want to see what Mrs. Browne got from London. Tell Mrs. Browne we're
afraid she'll be too fine to know her neighbors when she puts on her
new bonnet."

The last words of this neighborly chaff were shouted over a wide sheet
of water, and Sanford Browne, halfway up the bank, made no reply, but
went back to his chair in the passage and opened his packet. Kid that
he had been, Browne had contrived to learn to read and write from a
convict bought for a schoolmaster by the planter to whom Browne had
been sold. This lettered rogue took pity on the kidnaped child, and
gave him lessons on nights and Sunday, because he was well born and not
willing to sink to the condition of the servants about him.

Browne found his factor's letter occupied at the outset with an account
of the tobacco market and congratulations on the high price obtained
for the last year's crop. Then the factor proceeded to give a bill of
sales, and then a list of things purchased for Browne and his family,
with the price set down for the hoop skirt and the new bonnet and the
silk frock, as well as for a cocked hat and dress periwig necessary to
Sanford Browne's increasing dignity, and some things for the little
Sanford. Browne studied each successive page of the letter in hope of
finding a word on the subject in which he was most deeply interested,
stopping reluctantly now and then to look up when his wife would break
in with:

"Mr. Browne! Mr. Browne! won't you just look this way a minute? Isn't
this fine?"

"Yes, Judy; it surely is," he would say absently, keeping his thumb on
the place in the fa