“That’s smart,” said John Jr. looking at his father, who had not spoken.  “What is ’Lena going to ride, I should like to know.”

’Lena pressed his arm to keep him still, but he would not heed her.  “Isn’t there plenty of feed for Fleetfoot?”

“Certainly,” answered his father, compelled now to speak; “plenty of feed, but Fleetfoot was getting old and sometimes stumbled.  Perhaps we’ll get ’Lena a better and younger horse.”

This was said in a half timid way, which brought the tears to ’Lena’s eyes, for at the bottom of it all she saw her aunt, who sat looking into the glowing grate, apparently oblivious to all that was passing around her.

“That reminds me of Christmas gifts,” said Durward, anxious to change the conversation.  “I wonder how many of us will get one?”

Ere there was any chance for an answer a servant appeared at the door, asking Mrs. Livingstone for some medicine for old Aunt Polly, the superannuated negress, who will be remembered as having nursed Mrs. Nichols during her attack of rheumatism, and for whom grandma had conceived a strong affection.  For many days she had been very ill, causing Mrs. Livingstone to wonder “what old niggers wanted to live for, bothering everybody to death.”

The large stock of abolitionism which Mrs. Nichols had brought with her from Massachusetts was a little diminished by force of habit, but the root was there still, in all its vigor, and since Aunt Polly’s illness she had been revolving in her mind the momentous question, whether she would not be most guilty if Polly were suffered to die in bondage.

“I promised Nancy Scovandyke,” said she, “that I’d have some on ’em set free, but I’ll be bound if ’taint harder work than I s’posed ’twould be.”

Still Aunt Polly’s freedom lay warm at grandma’s heart and now when she was mentioned together with “Christmas gifts,” a bright idea entered her mind,

“John,” said she to her son, when Corinda had gone with the medicine, “John, have you ever made me a Christmas present since I’ve been here?”

“I believe not,” was his answer.

“Wall,” continued grandma, “bein’s the fashion, I want you to give me somethin’ this Christmas, will you?”

“Certainly,” said he, “what is it?”

Grandma replied that she would rather not tell him then—­she would wait until Christmas morning, which came the next Tuesday, and here the conversation ended.  Soon after, Durward took his leave, telling ’Lena he should call for her on Thursday.

“That’s a plaguy smart feller,” said grandma, as the door closed upon him; “and I kinder think he’s got a notion after ’Leny.”

“Ridiculous!” muttered Mrs. Livingstone, while Carrie added, “Just reverse it, and say she has a notion after him!”

“Shut up your head,” growled John Jr.  “You are only angry because he asked her to accompany him, instead of yourself.  I reckon he knows what he’s about.”