“So I did,” said Aunt Chloe,—­“I may say dat.  Good, plain, common cookin’, Jinny’ll do;—­make a good pone o’ bread,—­bile her taters far,—­her corn cakes isn’t extra, not extra now, Jinny’s corn cakes isn’t, but then they’s far,—­but, Lor, come to de higher branches, and what can she do?  Why, she makes pies—­sartin she does; but what kinder crust?  Can she make your real flecky paste, as melts in your mouth, and lies all up like a puff?  Now, I went over thar when Miss Mary was gwine to be married, and Jinny she jest showed me de weddin’ pies.  Jinny and I is good friends, ye know.  I never said nothin’; but go ’long, Mas’r George!  Why, I shouldn’t sleep a wink for a week, if I had a batch of pies like dem ar.  Why, dey wan’t no ’count ’t all.”

“I suppose Jinny thought they were ever so nice,” said George.

“Thought so!—­didn’t she?  Thar she was, showing em, as innocent—­ye see, it’s jest here, Jinny don’t know.  Lor, the family an’t nothing!  She can’t be spected to know!  ‘Ta’nt no fault o’ hem.  Ah, Mas’r George, you doesn’t know half ‘your privileges in yer family and bringin’ up!” Here Aunt Chloe sighed, and rolled up her eyes with emotion.

“I’m sure, Aunt Chloe, I understand I my pie and pudding privileges,” said George.  “Ask Tom Lincon if I don’t crow over him, every time I meet him.”

Aunt Chloe sat back in her chair, and indulged in a hearty guffaw of laughter, at this witticism of young Mas’r’s, laughing till the tears rolled down her black, shining cheeks, and varying the exercise with playfully slapping and poking Mas’r Georgey, and telling him to go way, and that he was a case—­that he was fit to kill her, and that he sartin would kill her, one of these days; and, between each of these sanguinary predictions, going off into a laugh, each longer and stronger than the other, till George really began to think that he was a very dangerously witty fellow, and that it became him to be careful how he talked “as funny as he could.”

“And so ye telled Tom, did ye?  O, Lor! what young uns will be up ter!  Ye crowed over Tom?  O, Lor!  Mas’r George, if ye wouldn’t make a hornbug laugh!”

“Yes,” said George, “I says to him, ’Tom, you ought to see some of Aunt Chloe’s pies; they’re the right sort,’ says I.”

“Pity, now, Tom couldn’t,” said Aunt Chloe, on whose benevolent heart the idea of Tom’s benighted condition seemed to make a strong impression.  “Ye oughter just ask him here to dinner, some o’ these times, Mas’r George,” she added; “it would look quite pretty of ye.  Ye know, Mas’r George, ye oughtenter feel ’bove nobody, on ’count yer privileges, ’cause all our privileges is gi’n to us; we ought al’ays to ’member that,” said Aunt Chloe, looking quite serious.

“Well, I mean to ask Tom here, some day next week,” said George; “and you do your prettiest, Aunt Chloe, and we’ll make him stare.  Won’t we make him eat so he won’t get over it for a fortnight?”