Mr. Weston did not, nor will we, delay to glance at the well-swept earthen floor, and the bright tins in rows on the dresser, but immediately addressed himself to Aunt Peggy, who, seated in a rush-bottomed chair in the corner, and rocking herself backwards and forwards, was talking rapidly.

And oh! what a figure had Aunt Peggy; or rather, what a face.  Which was the blacker, her eyes or her visage; or whiter, her eyeballs or her hair?  The latter, unconfined by her bandanna handkerchief as she generally wore it, standing off from her head in masses, like snow.  And who that had seen her, could forget that one tooth projecting over her thick underlip, and in constant motion as she talked.

“It’s no use, Mister Bacchus,” said she, addressing the old man, who looked rather the worse for wear, “it’s no use to be flinging yer imperence in my face.  I’se worked my time; I’se cooked many a grand dinner, and eat ’em too.  You’se a lazy wagabond yerself.”

“Peggy,” interposed Mr. Weston.

“A good-for-nothing, lazy wagabond, yerself,” continued Peggy, not noticing Mr. Weston, “you’se not worth de hommony you eats.”

“Does you hear that, master?” said Bacchus, appealing to Mr. Weston; “she’s such an old fool.”

“Hold your tongue, sir,” said Mr. Weston; while Mark, ready to strangle his fellow-servant for his impertinence, was endeavoring to drag him out of the room.

“Ha, ha,” said Peggy, “so much for Mr. Bacchus going to barbecues.  A nice waiter he makes.”

“Do you not see me before you, Peggy?” said Mr. Weston, “and do you continue this disputing in my presence?  If you were not so old, and had not been so faithful for many years, I would not excuse such conduct.  You are very ungrateful, when you are so well cared for; and from this time forward, if you cannot be quiet and set a good example in the kitchen, do not come into it.”

“Don’t be afeard, master, I can stay in my own cabin.  If I has been well treated, it’s no more den I desarves.  I’se done nuff for you and yours, in my day; slaved myself for you and your father before you.  De Lord above knows I dont want ter stay whar dat ole drunken nigger is, no how.  Hand me my cane, dar, Nancy, I ain’t gwine to ’trude my ’siety on nobody.”  And Peggy hobbled off, not without a most contemptuous look at Bacchus, who was making unsuccessful efforts to rise in compliment to his master.

“As for you, Bacchus,” said Mr. Weston, “never let this happen again.  I will not allow you to wait at barbecues, in future.”

“Don’t say so, master, if you please; dat ox, if you could a smelled him roastin, and de whiskey-punch,” and Bacchus snapped his finger, as the only way of concluding the sentence to his own satisfaction.

“Take him off, Mark,” said Mr. Weston, “the drunken old rascal.”

“Master,” said Bacchus, pushing Mark off, “I don’t like de way you speak to me; t’aint ’spectful.”