, and you used to pull the chest out from under your bed to
get me a dime."

"You kept the rattle in the right-hand corner of the chest," said Tom,
"in the box with the red silk purse, from which you took the gold piece
you gave me every Christmas."

A smile shone on Mrs. Ochiltree's severe features at this appreciation,
like a ray of sunlight on a snowbank.

"Aunt Polly's chest is like the widow's cruse," said Mrs. Carteret,
"which was never empty."

"Or Fortunatus's purse, which was always full," added old Mr. Delamere,
who read the Latin poets, and whose allusions were apt to be classical
rather than scriptural.

"It will last me while I live," said Mrs. Ochiltree, adding cautiously,
"but there'll not be a great deal left. It won't take much to support
an old woman for twenty years."

Mr. Delamere's man Sandy had been waiting upon the table with the
decorum of a trained butler, and a gravity all his own. He had changed
his suit of plain gray for a long blue coat with brass buttons, which
dated back to the fashion of a former generation, with which he wore a
pair of plaid trousers of strikingly modern cut and pattern. With his
whiskers, his spectacles, and his solemn air of responsibility, he would
have presented, to one unfamiliar with the negro type, an amusingly
impressive appearance. But there was nothing incongruous about Sandy to
this company, except perhaps to Tom Delamere, who possessed a keen eye
for contrasts and always regarded Sandy, in that particular rig, as a
very comical darkey.

"Is it quite prudent, Mrs. Ochiltree," suggested the major at a moment
when Sandy, having set down the tray, had left the room for a little
while, "to mention, in the presence of the servants, that you keep money
in the house?"

"I beg your pardon, major," observed old Mr. Delamere, with a touch of
stiffness. "The only servant in hearing of the conversation has been my
own; and Sandy is as honest as any man in Wellington."

"You mean, sir," replied Carteret, with a smile, "as honest as any negro
in Wellington."

"I make no exceptions, major," returned the old gentleman, with
emphasis. "I would trust Sandy with my life,--he saved it once at the
risk of his own."

"No doubt," mused the major, "the negro is capable of a certain doglike
fidelity,--I make the comparison in a kindly sense,--a certain personal
devotion which is admirable in itself, and fits him eminently for a
servile career. I should imagine, however,