sat on boxes, and the table was elongated with a packing case.  But the fun we had!  As delightful as the evening with the Squirrels; each of these pets out-doing the other in remarkable Western phrases and stories, and all with that whimsical fine sense of humour that can see the fun even in themselves.  I wish I could remember the sentences, but they are too difficult, only they had not to be translated or explained; they were simply the most unusual English applied in that crisp exact fashion that is an art in itself, meaning exactly what is necessary to present an idea.  The whole entertainment was cooked for, and waited on by, a most delightful coloured lady called Cassandra, who chewed gum and joined in the conversation.

Fancy the consternation and horror of Mrs. Spleist or Mrs. Craik V. Purdy, if either had been the hostess of such a party!  They would have apologised the whole time.  It was all enchanting.

“Now, Mr. Johnson,” Cassandra said (our host’s name is Burke Johnson), “why yo go for to put all de peas in dat great heap on yo plate?  Didn’t I tell yo to be careful?  Dey won’t go ’round.”  And she looked like a reproving mother to a greedy boy, showing her splendid teeth in a grin.  We were so amused.  But when the subjects interested her she would pause with a dish in the air and give her opinion in the friendliest way, not the least impertinently, but as some fond, privileged Nanny might at a children’s party.

“Fact is, you spoil Mr. Johnson, Cassandra,” Nelson said; “you feed him too well and keep him too snug.”  Then she tossed her head, “Mr. Johnson is my care, Mr. Nelson,” she said; “you can talk ’bout that to some other coloured lady,” and her laugh rang out like a silver bell.

I cannot give you any idea, Mamma, of how perfectly delightful all these people are.

After dinner we played a game of poker in the sitting-room, not for high stakes, only just chaff and fun, and Tom made outrageous love to Columbia, who answered him with the cleverest parries.  American girls are miles ahead of us in brilliant repartee.  Then someone played the piano and we all sang songs, and from the kitchen where Cassandra was washing up the dishes, came the most melodious second in that sweet perfect harmony which the negroes seem so well to understand.

Placed carelessly among some books on a table by the side of the piano were two revolvers (I must call them “guns” here, because that is their name) and I did such a silly thing without thinking, so unaccustomed are we at home to realise anything could be loaded that was casually lying about.  I picked one up and examined the tracing on the barrel, never noticing that it was pointing straight up at my head, until I felt Nelson’s iron grip upon my wrist, while he took it from my hand.  His face was white as death.  “My God!” he said, “my God, quit touching that!” Then he walked quickly to the door and opened it and looked out on the night.  There was no hall, the sitting-room is straight on the street.  He took a great deep breath and came back again, and then he laughed, “Guess I’m a pretty fool,” he said; “I’ve had them pointed direct at me with the finger on the trigger, too, and never turned a hair, but, by the Lord, to see your flower face close to that grim thing makes me kind of sick.”  It moved me deeply, Mamma; I wonder why?