“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

She hesitated a moment, thinking how she could make her reply a personal assault on Peter.

“’Cause you come heah, ‘sputin’ my rights, da’ ‘s’ why.”

“No,” demurred Peter, “you were quarreling in the kitchen the first morning I came here, and you didn’t know I was on the place.”

“Well—­I got my tribulations,” she snapped, staring suspiciously at these unusual questions.

There was a pause; then Peter said placatingly: 

“I was just thinking, Aunt Rose, you might forget your tribulations if you didn’t ride them all the time.”

“Hoccum!  What you mean, ridin’ my tribulations?”

“Thinking about them.  The old Captain, for instance; you are no happier always abusing the old Captain.”

The old virago gave a sniff, tossed her head, but kept her eyes rolled suspiciously on Peter.

“Very often the way we think and act makes us happy or unhappy,” moralized Peter, broadly.

“Look heah, nigger, you ain’t no preacher sont out by de Lawd to me!”

“Anyway, I am sure you would feel more friendly toward the Captain if you acted openly with him; for instance, if you didn’t take off all his cold victuals, and handkerchiefs and socks, soap, kitchenware—­”

The cook snorted.

“I’d feel dat much mo’ nekked an’ hongry, dat’s how I’d feel.”

“Perhaps, if you’d start over, he might give you a better wage.”

“Huh!” she snorted in an access of irony.  “I see dat skinflint gib’n’ me a better wage.  Puuh!” The suddenly she realized where the conversation had wandered, and stared at the secretary with widening eyes “Good Lawd!  Did dat fool Cap’n set up a nigger in dis bedroom winder jes to ketch ole Rose packin’ off a few ole lef’-overs?” Peter began a hurried denial, but she rushed on:  “‘Fo’ Gawd, I hopes his viddles chokes him!  I hope his ole smoke-house falls down on his ole haid.  I hope to Jesus—­”

Peter pleaded with her not to think the Captain was behind his observations, but the hag rushed out of the bedroom, swinging her head from side to side, uttering the most terrible maledictions.  She would show him!  She wouldn’t put another foot in his old kitchen.  Wild horses couldn’t drag her into his smoke-house again.

Peter ran to the door and called after her down the piazza, trying to exonerate the Captain:  but she either did not or would not hear, and vanished into the kitchen, still furious.

Old Rose made Peter so uneasy that he deserted his breakfast midway and hurried to the library.  In the solemn old room he found the Captain alone and in rather a pleased mood.  The old gentleman stood patting and alining a pile of manuscript.  As the mulatto entered he exclaimed: 

“Well, here’s Peter again!” as if his secretary had been off on a long journey.  Immediately afterward he added, “Peter, guess what I did last night.”  His voice was full of triumph.