Aunt Dilsey was really a very valuable servant, and had some reason for thinking herself the main spoke in the wheel which kept her master’s household together.  She had lived in the family ever since Dr. Lacey’s early recollection, and as she had nursed him when an infant, he naturally felt a great affection for her, and intrusted her with the exclusive management of the culinary department, little negroes and all.  His confidence in her was not misplaced, for from morning till night she was faithful to her trust, and woe to any luckless woolly head who was found wasting “marster’s” sweetmeats and pickles.

On the first hand Aunt Dilsey was very sensitive, for being naturally active and stirring herself, “She,” to use her own words, “couldn’t bar to see folks lazin’ round like thar was nothin’ to do, but to git up and stuff themselves till they’s fit to bust.”  She also felt annoyed whenever her young master indulged himself in a morning nap.  “Ought to be up,” she said, “and airin’ hisself.”

On the morning following the party, her patience was severely taxed in two ways.  First, Claib, her husband, had adhered to his resolution of sleeping over, and long after the clock struck eleven he was sleeping profoundly.  He had resisted all Aunt Dilsey’s efforts to rouse him.  Her scoldings, sprinklings with hot and cold water, punching with the carving fork, had all proved ineffectual, and as a last resort, she put the baby on his bed, thinking “that would surely fetch him up standin’, for ’twasn’t in natur to sleep with the baby wollopin’ and mowin’ over him.”  Her master, too, troubled her.  Why he couldn’t get up she couldn’t see.  “His breakfast was as cold as a grave stun, and she didn’t keer if ’twas.  She had enough to do ‘tendin’ to other affairs, without keepin’ the niggers and dogs from porkin’ thar noses in it.”

At a late hour Dr. Lacey awoke from his uneasy slumber.  The return of morning brought comparative calmness to his troubled spirit.  Hope whispered that what he had heard might be a mistake.  At least he would wait for further confirmation.  He did not know how near that confirmation was.  Rondeau had been waiting for his masters summons until his patience was exhausted.  So, relying on the letter to counteract any apparent disrespect, he stalked upstairs and knocked at Dr. Lacey’s door, just as that gentleman was about ringing for him.

As soon as he entered the room, he called out, “Here, master, I’ve got ’em this time!” at the same time extending a letter, the superscription of which made Dr. Lacey turn pale, for he recognized, as he supposed, Fanny’s delicate handwriting.

“You may leave me alone, Rondeau,” said he, “and I will ring for you when I want you.”  So Rondeau departed with the remaining letter in his pocket.  He had forgotten to deliver it, but it was not missed.

Oh, Rondeau, Rondeau!  It was very unfortunate that you forgot that letter, and suffered it to remain in your pocket unheeded for so many days.  Its contents would have scattered the dark, desolating tempest which was fast gathering over your young master’s pathway.