“Etiquette!” repeated Lenora.  “You are mistaken, Polly; mother would sit on a point of etiquette till she wore the back breadth of her dress out.  But it isn’t that which she lacks—­it’s decency.  But, Polly,” said she, changing the subject, “where do you intend to go and how?”

“To my brother Sam’s,” said Polly.  “He lives three miles in the country, and I’ve sent Robin to the village for a horse and wagon to carry my things.”

Here Mrs. Hamilton entered the kitchen, followed by a strapping Irish girl, nearly six feet in height.  Her hair, flaming red, was twisted round a huge back comb; her faded calico dress came far above her ankles; her brawny arms were folded one over the other; and there was in her appearance something altogether disagreeable and defiant.  Mrs. Hamilton introduced her as Ruth, her new cook, saying she hoped she would know enough to keep her place better than her predecessor had done.

Aunt Polly surveyed her rival from head to foot, and then glancing aside to Lenora, muttered, “Low-lived, depend on’t.”

Robin now drove up with the wagon, and Mrs. Hamilton and Lenora left the room, while Polly went to prepare herself for her ride.  Her sleeping apartment was in the basement and communicated with the kitchen.  This was observed by the new cook, who had a strong dislike of negroes, and who feared that she might be expected to occupy the same bed.

“An’ faith,” said she, “is it where the like of ya have burrowed that I am to turn in?”

“I don’t understand no such low-flung stuff,” answered Polly, “but if you mean you are to have this bedroom, I suppose you are.”

Here Polly had occasion to go up-stairs for something, and on her return she found that Ruth, during her absence, had set fire to a large linen rag, which she held on a shovel and was carrying about the bedroom, as if to purify it from every atom of negro atmosphere which might remain.  Polly was quick-witted, and instantly comprehending the truth, she struck the shovel from the hands of Ruth, exclaiming, “You spalpeen, is it because my skin ain’t a dingy yaller and all freckled like yourn?  Lord, look at your carrot-topped cocoanut, and then tell me if wool ain’t a heap the most genteel.”

In a moment a portion of the boasted wool was lying on the floor, or being shaken from the thick, red fingers of the cook, while Irish blood was flowing freely from the nose which Polly, in her vengeful wrath, had wrung.  Further hostilities were prevented by Robin, who screamed that he couldn’t wait any longer, and shaking her fist fiercely at the red-head, Polly departed.

That day Lucy and Rachel also left, and their places were supplied by two raw hands, one of whom, before the close of the second day, tumbled up-stairs with the large soup tureen, breaking it in fragments and scalding the foot of Mrs. Hamilton, who was in the rear, and who, having waited an hour for dinner, had descended to the kitchen to know why it was not forthcoming, saying that Polly had never been so behind the time.