Charlie, after bathing his face and arranging his hair, looked from the window at the wide expanse of country spread out before him, all bright and glowing in the warm summer sunlight.  Broad well-cultivated fields stretched away from the foot of the garden to the river beyond, and the noise of the waterfall, which was but a short distance off, was distinctly heard, and the sparkling spray was clearly visible through the openings of the trees.  “What a beautiful place,—­what grand fields to run in; an orchard, too, full of blossoming fruit-trees!  Well, this is nice,” exclaimed Charlie, as his eye ran over the prospect; but in the midst of his rapture came rushing back upon him the remembrance of the cavalier treatment he had met with below-stairs, and he said with a sigh, as the tears sprang to his eyes, “But it is not home, after all.”  Just at this moment he heard his name called by Betsey, and he hastily descended into the kitchen.  At one end of the partially-cleared table a clean plate and knife and fork had been placed, and he was speedily helped to the remains of what the servants had been eating.

“You mustn’t be long,” said Betsey, “for to-day is ironing day, and we want the table as soon as possible.”

The food was plentiful and good, but Charlie could not eat; his heart was full and heavy,—­the child felt his degradation.  “Even the servants refuse to eat with me because I am coloured,” thought he.  “Oh!  I wish I was at home!”

“Why don’t you eat?” asked Betsey.

“I don’t think I want any breakfast; I’m not hungry,” was the reply.

“I hope you are not sulky,” she rejoined; “we don’t like sulky boys here; why don’t you eat?” she repeated.

The sharp, cold tones of her voice struck a chill into the child’s heart, and his lip quivered as he stammered something farther about not being hungry; and he hurried away into the garden, where he calmed his feelings and allayed his home-sickness by a hearty burst of tears.  After this was over, he wandered through the garden and fields until dinner; then, by reading his book and by another walk, he managed to get through the day.

The following morning, as he was coming down stairs, he was met by Alfred, who accosted him with, “Oh! you’re up, are you; I was just going to call you.”  And looking at Charlie from head to foot, he inquired, “Is that your best suit?”

“No, it’s my worst,” replied Charlie.  “I have two suits better than this;” and thinking that Mrs. Bird had arrived, he continued, “I’ll put on my best if Mrs. Bird wants me.”

“No, she ain’t home,” was the reply; “it’s me that wants you; come down here; I’ve got a little job for you.  Take this,” said he, handing him a dirty tow apron, “and tie it around your neck; it will keep the blacking off your clothes, you know.  Now,” continued he, “I want you to clean these boots; these two pairs are Mr. Tyndall’s—­them you need not be particular with; but this pair is mine, and I want ’em polished up high,—­now mind, I tell you.  I’m going to wear a new pair of pants to meetin’ to-morrow, and I expect to cut a dash, so you’ll do ’em up slick, now won’t you?”