“I’ll do my best,” said Charlie, who, although he did not dislike work, could not relish the idea of cleaning the servants’ boots.  “I’m afraid I shall find this a queer place,” thought he.  “I shall not like living here, I know—­wait for my meals until the servants have finished, and clean their boots into the bargain.  This is worse than being with Mrs. Thomas.”

Charlie, however, went at it with a will, and was busily engaged in putting the finishing touches on Alfred’s boots, when he heard his name called, and on looking up, saw Mrs. Bird upon the piazza above.  “Why, bless me! child, what are you about?—­whose boots are those, and why are you cleaning them?”

“Oh!” he replied, his face brightening up at the sight of Mrs. Bird, “I’m so glad you’re come; those are Mr. Tyndall’s boots, and these,” he continued, holding up the boots on which he was engaged, “are the gardener’s.”

“And who, pray, instructed you to clean them?”

“The gardener,” replied Charlie.

“He did, did he?” said Mrs. Bird, indignantly.  “Very well; now do you take off that apron and come to me immediately; before you do, however, tell Alfred I want him.”

Charlie quickly divested himself of the tow apron, and after having informed the gardener that Mrs. Bird desired his presence in the parlour, he ran up there himself.  Alfred came lumbering up stairs, after giving his boots an unusual scraping and cleansing preparatory to entering upon that part of the premises which to him was generally forbidden ground.

“By whose direction did you set the child at that dirty work?” asked Mrs. Bird, after he had entered the room.

“I hadn’t anybody’s direction to set him to work, but I thought you brought him here to do odd jobs.  You know, ma’am, I asked you some time ago to get a boy, and I thought this was the one.”

“And if he had been, you would have taken a great liberty in assigning him any duties without first consulting me.  But he is not a servant here, nor do I intend him to be such; and let me inform you, that instead of his cleaning your boots, it will be your duty henceforth to clean his.  Now,” continued she, “you know his position here, let me see that you remember yours.  You can go.”  This was said in so peremptory a manner, as to leave no room for discussion or rejoinder, and Alfred, with a chagrined look, went muttering down stairs.

“Things have come to a pretty pass,” grumbled he.  “I’m to wait on niggers, black their boots, and drive them out, too, I suppose.  I’d leave at once if it wasn’t such a good situation.  Drat the old picture—­what has come over her I wonder—­she’ll be asking old Aunt Charity, the black washerwoman to dine with her next.  She has either gone crazy or turned abolitionist, I don’t know which; something has happened to her, that’s certain.”

“Now, Charlie,” said Mrs. Bird, as the door closed upon the crest-fallen gardener, “go to your room and dress yourself nicely.  After I’ve eaten my breakfast, I am going to visit a friend, and I want you to accompany me; don’t be long.”