“Why, Jupiter,” said Phillis, “is this you?  How on earth did I happen to forget you.  Your eyes is red, to be sure, and no wonder, you poor, half-starved creature.  I must a locked you up here, the day after the funeral, and I never would a forgot you, if it hadn’t been my mind was so taken up with Miss Alice.  Why, you’re thin as a snake,—­wait a minute and I’ll bring you something to eat.”

Jupiter, who had lived exclusively on mice for a fortnight, was evidently subdued by the prospects of an early breakfast.  The apology Phillis had made him seemed not to be without its effect, for when she came back, with a small tin pan of bread and milk, and a piece of bacon hanging to a fork, his back was not the least elevated, and he proceeded immediately to the hearth where the provender was deposited, and to use an inelegant Westernism, “walked into it;” Phillis meanwhile going home, perfectly satisfied with the result of her exploration.  Bacchus’s toilet was completed, he was just raising up from the exertion of putting on his slippers, when Phillis came in, laughing.

This was an unusual phenomenon, so early in the morning, and Bacchus was slightly uneasy at its portent, but he ventured to ask her what was the matter.

“Nothing,” said Phillis, “only I’ve seen the ghost.”

“Lord! what?”

“The ghost!” said Phillis, “and its got red eyes, too, sure enough.”

“Phillis,” said Bacchus, appealingly, “you aint much used to jokin, and I know you wouldn’t tell an ontruth; what do you mean?”

“I mean,” said Phillis, “that the very ghost you saw, and heard screeching, with the red eyes glarin at you through the window, I’ve seen this morning.”

“Phillis,” said Bacchus, sinking back in his chair, “’taint possible!  What was it a doin?”

“I can tell you what its doing now,” said Phillis, “its eating bread and milk and a piece of bacon, as hard as it can.  Its eyes is red, to be sure, but I reckon yours would be red or shut, one, if you’d a been nigh a fortnight locked up in an empty house, with now and then a mouse to eat.  Why, Bacchus, how come it, you forgot old Jupiter?  I was too busy to think about cats, but I wonder nobody else didn’t think of the poor animal.”

“Sure enough,” said Bacchus, slowly recovering from his astonishment, “its old Jupiter—­why I’d a sworn on the Bible ’twas Aunt Peggy’s sperrit.  Well, I do b’lieve! that old cat’s lived all this time; well, he aint no cat any how—­I always said he was a witch, and now I knows it, that same old Jupiter.  But, Phillis, gal, I wouldn’t say nothin at all about it—­we’ll have all dese low niggers laughin at us.”

“What they going to laugh at me about?” said Phillis.  “I didn’t see no ghost.”

“Well, its all de same,” said Bacchus, “they’ll laugh at me—­and man and wife’s one—­’taint worth while to say nothin ’bout it, as I see.”

“I shan’t say nothing about it as long as you keep sober; but mind, you go pitching and tumbling about, and I aint under no kind of promise to keep your secret.  And its the blessed truth, they’d laugh, sure enough, at you, if they did know it.”