his white cotton gloves, white vest, and green coat with brass buttons, standin’ behind Mrs. Slocomb’s chair.  I can see the old sidebo’d, suh, covered with George III. silver, heirlooms of a century,”—­this with a trance-like movement of his hand across his eyes.  “I can see the great Italian marble mantels suppo’ted on lions’ heads, the inlaid floor and wainscotin’.”—­Here the major sank upon the divan again, shutting both eyes reverently, as if these memories of the past were a sort of religion with him.

“And the way those niggers loved us!  And the many holes they helped us out of.  Sit down there, and let me tell you what Anthony did for me once.”  I obeyed cheerfully.  “Some years ago I received a telegram from a very intimate friend of mine, a distinguished Baltimorean,—­the Nestor of the Maryland bar, suh,—­informin’ me that he was on his way South, and that he would make my house his home on the followin’ night.”  The major’s eyes were still shut.  He had passed out of his reverential mood, but the effort to be absolutely exact demanded concentration.

“I immediately called up Anthony, and told him that Judge Spofford of the Supreme Co’t of Maryland would arrive the next day, and that I wanted the best dinner that could be served in the county, and the best bottle of wine in my cellar.”  The facts having been correctly stated, the major assumed his normal facial expression and opened his eyes.

“What I’m tellin’ you occurred after the war, remember, when putty near everybody down our way was busted.  Most of our niggers had run away,—­all ’cept our old house-servants, who never forgot our family pride and our noble struggle to keep up appearances.  Well, suh, when Spofford arrived Anthony carried his bag to his room, and when dinner was announced, if it was my own table, I must say that it cert’ly did fa’rly groan with the delicacies of the season.  After the crabs had been taken off,—­we were alone, Mrs. Slocomb havin’ gone to Baltimo’,—­I said to the judge:  ‘Yo’ Honor, I am now about to delight yo’ palate with the very best bottle of old madeira that ever passed yo’ lips.  A wine that will warm yo’ heart, and unbutton the top button of yo’ vest.  It is part of a special importation presented to Mrs. Slocomb’s father by the captain of one of his ships.—­Anthony, go down into the wine-cellar, the inner cellar, Anthony, and bring me a bottle of that old madeira of ’37—­stop, Anthony; make it ‘39.  I think, judge, it is a little dryer.’  Well, Anthony bowed, and left the room, and in a few moments he came back, set a lighted candle on the mantel, and, leanin’ over my chair, said in a loud whisper:  ’De cellar am locked, suh, and I’m ‘feard Mis’ Slocomb dun tuk de key.’

“‘Well, s’pose she has,’ I said; ‘put yo’ knee against it, and fo’ce the do’.’  I knew my man, suh.  Anthony never moved a muscle.

“Here the judge called out, ’Why, major, I couldn’t think of’—­

“‘Now, yo’ Honor,’ said I, ’please don’t say a word.  This is my affair.  The lock is not of the slightest consequence.’