“Dishyere clothes sho’ is sober,” he reflected aloud.  “One li’l gole vine a-crawlin’ on de cuffs, nuvver li’l gole vine a-creepin’ up de wes’coat, gole buckles on de houn’-tongue—­Whar de hat?  Hat done loose hisse’f!  Here de hat!  Gole lace on de hat—­Cap’in Ormond sho’ is quality gemm’n.  Ef he ain’t, how come dishyere gole lace on de hat?”

“Come, Cato,” I remonstrated, “am I dressing for a ball at Augustine, that you stand there pulling my finery about to choose and pick?  I tell you to give me a sober suit!” I snatched a flowered robe from the bed’s foot-board, pulled it about me, and stepped to the floor.

Cato brought a chair and bowl, and, when I had washed once more I seated myself while the old man shook out my hair, dusted it to its natural brown, then fell to combing and brushing.  My hair, with its obstinate inclination to curl, needed neither iron nor pomade; so, silvering it with my best French powder, he tied the short queue with a black ribbon and dusted my shoulders, critically considering me the while.

“A plain shirt,” I said, briefly.

He brought a frilled one.

“I want a plain shirt,” I insisted.

“Dishyere sho’t am des de plaines’ an’ de—­”

“You villain, don’t I know what I want?”

“No, suh!”

And, upon my honor, I could not get that black mule to find me the shirt that I wished to wear.  More than that, he utterly refused to permit me to dress in a certain suit of mouse-color without lace, but actually bundled me into the silver-gray, talking volubly all the while; and I, half laughing and wholly vexed, almost minded to go burrowing myself among my boxes and risk peppering silk and velvet with hair-powder.

But he dressed me as it suited him, patting my silk shoes into shape, smoothing coat-skirt and flowered vest-flap, shaking out the lace on stock and wrist with all the delicacy and cunning of a lady’s-maid.

“Idiot!” said I, “am I tricked out to please you?”

“You sho’ is, Cap’in Ormond, suh,” he said, the first faint approach to a grin that I had seen wrinkling his aged face.  And with that he hung my small-sword, whisked the powder from my shoulders with a bit of cambric, chose a laced handkerchief for me, and, ere I could remonstrate, passed a tiny jewelled pin into my powdered hair, where it sparkled like a frost crystal.

“I’m no macaroni!” I said, angrily; “take it away!”

“Cap’in Ormond, suh, you sho’ is de fines’ young gemm’n in de province, suh,” he pleaded.  “Dess regahd yo’se’f, suh, in dishyere lookum-glass.  What I done tell you?  Look foh yo’se’f, suh!  Cap’in Butler gwine see how de quality gemm’n fixes up!  Suh John Johnsing he gwine see!  Dat ole Kunnel Butler he gwine see, too!  Heah yo’ is, suh, dess a-bloomin’ lak de pink-an’-silver ghos’ flower wif de gole heart.”

“Cato,” I asked, curiously, “why do you take pride in tricking out a stranger to dazzle your own people?”