“I feels mighty shamed o’ that, sir,” said Bacchus, “but I hope you will ’scuse it.  Niggers aint like white people, no how; they can’t ’sist temptation.  I’ve repented wid tears for dat business, and ’twont happen agin, if it please the Lord not to lead me into temptation.”

“You led yourself into temptation,” said Mr. Weston; “you took pains to cross two or three fences, and to go round by Norris’s tavern, when, if you had chosen, you could have come home by the other road.”

“True as gospel, ma’am,” said Bacchus, “I don’t deny de furst word of it; the Lord forgive me for backsliding; but master’s mighty good to us, and if he’ll overlook that little misfortune of mine, it shan’t happen agin.”

“You call it a misfortune, do you, Bacchus?” said Mr. Barbour; “why, it seems to me such a great Christian as you are, would have given the right name to it, and called it a sin.  I am told you are turned preacher?”

“No, sir,” said Bacchus, “I aint no preacher, I warn’t called to be; I leads in prayer sometimes, and in general I rises de tunes.”

“Well, I suppose I can’t refuse you,” said Mr. Weston; “but come home sober, or ask no more permissions.”

“God bless you, master; don’t be afeard:  you’ll see you can trust me.  I aint gwine to disgrace our family no more.  I has to have a little change sometimes, for Miss Janet knows my wife keeps me mighty straight at home.  She ’lows me no privileges, and if I didn’t go off sometimes for a little fun, I shouldn’t have no health, nor sperrets nother.”

“You wouldn’t have any sperrits, that’s certain,” said Alice, laughing; “I should like to see a bottle of whisky in Aunt Phillis’s cabin.”

Bacchus laughed outright, infinitely overcome at the suggestion.  “My blessed grief!  Miss Alice,” said he, “she’d make me eat de bottle, chaw up all de glass, swaller it arter dat.  I aint ever tried dat yet—­best not to, I reckon.  No, master, I intends to keep sober from this time forrurd, till young master comes back; den I shall git high, spite of Phillis, and ’scuse me, sir, spite of de devil hisself.  When is he comin, any how, sir?”

“Next year, I hope, Bacchus,” said Mr. Weston.

“Long time, sir,” said Bacchus; “like as not he’ll never see old Aunt Peggy agin.  She’s failin, sir, you can see by de way she sets in de sun all day, wid a long switch in her hand, trying to hit de little niggers as dey go by.  Sure sign she’s gwine home.  If she wasn’t altogether wore out, she’d be at somefin better.  She’s sarved her time cookin and bakin, and she’s gwine to a country whar there’s no ’casion to cook any more.  She’s a good old soul, but wonderful cross sometimes.”

“She has been an honest, hard-working, and faithful servant, and a sober one too,” said Mr. Weston.

“I understand, sir,” said Bacchus, humbly; “but don’t give yourself no oneasiness about me!  I shall be home to-morrow night, ready to jine in at prayers.”