On the next morning, Mrs. W—­awoke first.  But what was her surprise and horror, upon rising up, to see, instead of her lawful husband, what she thought a strapping negro, as black as charcoal, lying at her side.  Her first impulse was to scream; but her presence of mind in this trying position, enabled her to keep silence.  You may be sure that she didn’t remain long in such a close contact with Sir Darkey.  Not she!  For, slipping out of bed quickly, but noiselessly, she glided from the room, and was soon down stairs in the kitchen, where a stout, two-fisted Irish girl was at work preparing breakfast.

“Oh! dear!  Kitty!” she exclaimed, panting for breath, and looking as pale as a ghost, “have you seen any thing of Mr. W—­, this morning?”

“Och! no.  But what ails ye?  Ye’re as white as a shate?”

“Oh! mercy!  Kitty.  You wouldn’t believe it, but there’s a monstrous negro in my room!”

“Gracious me!  Mrs. W—­, a nager?”

“Yes, indeed, Kitty!” returned Mrs. W—­, trembling in every limb.  “And worse and worse, he’s in my bed!  I just ’woke up and thought it was Mr. W—­by my side But, when I looked over, I saw instead of his face, one as black as the stove.  Mercy on me!  I was frightened almost to death.”

“Is he aslape?” asked Kitty.

“Yes, sound asleep and snoring.  Oh! dear!  What shall we do?  Where in the world is Mr. W—?  I’m afraid this negro has murdered him.”

“Och! the blasted murtherin’ thafe!” exclaimed Kitty, her organ of combativeness, which was very large, becoming terribly excited.  “Get into mistress’s bed, and the leddy there herself, the omadhoun!  The black, murtherin’ thafe of a villain!”

And Kitty, thinking of no danger to herself, and making no calculation of consequences, seized a stout hickory clothes pole that stood in one corner of the kitchen, and went up stairs like a whirlwind, banging the pole against the door, balusters, or whatever came in its way.  The noise roused W—­from his sleep, and he raised up in bed just as Kitty entered the room.

“Oh! you murtherin’ thafe of a villain!” shouted Kitty, as she caught sight of his black face, pitching into him with her pole, and sweeping off his night-cap, at the imminent risk of taking his head with it.

“Hallo!” he cried, not at all liking this strange proceeding, “are you mad?”

“Mad is it, ye thafe!” retorted Kitty, who did not recognize the voice, and taking a surer aim this time with her pole, brought him a tremendous blow alongside of the head, which knocked him senseless.

Mrs. W—­who was at the bottom of the stairs, heard her husband’s exclamation, and, knowing his voice, came rushing up, and entered the room in time to see Kitty’s formidable weapon come with terrible force against his head.  Before the blow could be repeated, for Kitty, ejaculating her “murtherin’ thafe of a villain!” had lifted the pole again, Mrs. W—­threw her arms around her neck, and cried, “Don’t, don’t, Kitty, for mercy’s sake!” It’s Mr. W—­, and you’ve killed him!”