“Well, yas, Mistuh Tom,” returned Sandy, with evident reluctance, “dere’s a few dollahs put away in my bureau drawer fer a rainy day,—­not much, suh.”

“I’m a little short this afternoon, Sandy, and need some money right away.  Grandfather isn’t here, so I can’t get any from him.  Let me take what you have for a day or two, Sandy, and I’ll return it with good interest.”

“Now, Mistuh Tom,” said Sandy seriously, “I don’ min’ lettin’ you take my money, but I hopes you ain’ gwine ter use it fer none er dem rakehelly gwines-on er yo’n,—­gamblin’ an’ bettin’ an’ so fo’th.  Yo’ grandaddy ‘ll fin’ out ‘bout you yit, ef you don’ min’ yo’ P’s an’ Q’s.  I does my bes’ ter keep yo’ misdoin’s f’m ‘im, an’ sense I b’en tu’ned out er de chu’ch—­thoo no fault er my own, God knows!—­I’ve tol’ lies ’nuff ’bout you ter sink a ship.  But it ain’t right, Mistuh Tom, it ain’t right! an’ I only does it fer de sake er de fam’ly honuh, dat Mars John sets so much sto’ by, an’ ter save his feelin’s; fer de doctuh says he mus’n’ git ixcited ‘bout nothin’, er it mought bring on another stroke.”

“That’s right, Sandy,” replied Tom approvingly; “but the family honor is as safe in my hands as in grandfather’s own, and I’m going to use the money for an excellent purpose, in fact to relieve a case of genuine distress; and I’ll hand it back to you in a day or two,—­perhaps to-morrow.  Fetch me the money, Sandy,—­that’s a good darky!”

“All right, Mistuh Tom, you shill have de money; but I wants ter tell you, suh, dat in all de yeahs I has wo’ked fer yo’ gran’daddy, he has never called me a ‘darky’ ter my face, suh.  Co’se I knows dere’s w’ite folks an’ black folks,—­but dere’s manners, suh, dere’s manners, an’ gent’emen oughter be de ones ter use ’em, suh, ef dey ain’t ter be fergot enti’ely!”

“There, there, Sandy,” returned Tom in a conciliatory tone, “I beg your pardon!  I’ve been associating with some Northern white folks at the hotel, and picked up the word from them.  You’re a high-toned colored gentleman, Sandy,—­the finest one on the footstool.”

Still muttering to himself, Sandy retired to his own room, which was in the house, so that he might be always near his master.  He soon returned with a time-stained leather pocket-book and a coarse-knit cotton sock, from which two receptacles he painfully extracted a number of bills and coins.

“You count dat, Mistuh Tom, so I’ll know how much I’m lettin’ you have.”

“This isn’t worth anything,” said Tom, pushing aside one roll of bills.  “It’s Confederate money.”

“So it is, suh.  It ain’t wuth nothin’ now; but it has be’n money, an’ who kin tell but what it mought be money agin?  De rest er dem bills is greenbacks,—­dey’ll pass all right, I reckon.”

The good money amounted to about fifty dollars, which Delamere thrust eagerly into his pocket.

“You won’t say anything to grandfather about this, will you, Sandy,” he said, as he turned away.