difficulty, he got him down to the river under the bridge, and threw him in.  He told Phillis when he got home, that he felt now for the first time as if Aunt Peggy was really dead, and they all might hope for a little comfort.  Twenty-four hours after, however, just as the moon was rising, Bacchus was taken completely by surprise, for Jupiter passed him with his back raised, and proceeded to the door of his old residence, commencing immediately a most vociferous demand to be admitted.

Bacchus was speechless for some moments, but at last made out to call Phillis, who came to the door to see what was the trouble.  “Look thar,” said he, “you want to make me b’lieve that aint ole Aunt Peggy’s wraith—­ground can’t hold her, water can’t hold him—­why I drowned him deep—­how you ’spose he got out of that bag?”

Phillis could not help laughing.  “Well, I never did see the like—­the cat has scratched through the bag and swam ashore.”

“I b’lieves you,” said Bacchus, “and if you had throw’d him into the fire, he wouldn’t a got burned; but I tell you, no cat’s a gwine to get the better of me—­I’ll kill Jupiter, yet.”

Phillis, not wanting the people aroused, got the key, and unlocked the door, Jupiter sprang in, and took up his old quarters on the hearth, where he was quiet for the night.  In the morning she carried some bread and milk to him, and told Bacchus not to say any thing about his coming back to any one, and that after she came home from town, where she was going on business for Mrs. Weston, they would determine what they would do.  But Bacchus secretly resolved to have the affair settled before Phillis should return, that the whole glory of having conquered an enemy should belong to him.

Phillis was going on a number of errands to L——­, and she expected to be detained all day, for she understood shopping to perfection, and she went charged with all sorts of commissions; besides, she had to stop to see one or two sick old colored ladies of her acquaintance, and she told Mrs. Weston she might as well make a day of it.  Thus it was quite evening when she got home—­found every thing had been well attended to, children in bed, but Bacchus among the missing, though he had promised her he would not leave the premises until her return.

Now, if there is a severe trial on this earth, it is for a wife (of any color) who rarely leaves home,—­to return after a day of business and pleasure, having spent all the money she could lay her hands on, having dined with one friend and taken a dish of tea and gossiped with another—­to return, hoping to see every thing as she expected, and to experience the bitter disappointment of finding her husband gone out in spite of the most solemn asseverations to the contrary.  Who could expect a woman to preserve her composure under such circumstances?