and suddenly gets a glimpse of old master, who is already dressed, and sits by the window, his attention intently set upon some object without.  The old slave recognises the same chamber from which he guided Franconia on the night before, and, after saluting mas’r, sets about arranging the domestic affairs of the apartment, and preparing the breakfast table, the breakfast being cooked at Aunt Beckie’s cabin, in the yard.  Aunt Beckie had the distinguished satisfaction of knowing Marston in his better days, and now esteems it an honour to serve him, even in his poverty.  Always happy to inform her friends that she was brought up a first-rate pastry-cook, she now adds, with great satisfaction, that she pays her owner, the very Reverend Mr. Thomas Tippletony, the ever-pious rector of St. Michael’s, no end of money for her time, and makes a good profit at her business beside.  Notwithstanding she has a large family of bright children to maintain in a respectable way, she hopes for a continuance of their patronage, and will give the best terms her limited means admit.  She knows how very necessary it is for a southern gentleman who would be anybody to keep up appearances, and, with little means, to make a great display:  hence she is very easy in matters of payment.  In Marston’s case, she is extremely proud to render him service,—­to “do for him” as far as she can, and wait a change for the better concerning any balance outstanding.

Bob fetches the breakfast of coffee, fritters, homony, and bacon,—­a very good breakfast it is, considering the circumstances,—­and spreads the little rustic board with an air of comfort and neatness complimentary to the old slave’s taste.  And, withal, the old man cannot forego the inherent vanity of his nature, for he is, unconsciously, performing all the ceremonies of attendance he has seen Dandy and his satellites go through at the plantation mansion.  He fusses and grins, and praises and laughs, as he sets the dishes down one by one, keeping a watchful eye on mas’r, as if to detect an approval in his countenance.  “Reckon ’ow dis old nigger can fix old Boss up aristocratic breakfast like Dandy.  Now, Boss-da’h he is!” he says, whisking round the table, setting the cups just so, and spreading himself with exultation.  “Want to see master smile-laugh some-like ’e used down on da’h old plantation!” he ejaculates, emphatically, placing a chair at Marston’s plate.  This done, he accompanies his best bow with a scrape of his right foot, spreads his hands,—­the gesture being the signal of readiness.  Marston takes his chair, as Bob affects the compound dignity of the very best trained nigger, doing the distinguished in waiting.

“A little less ceremony, my old faithful! the small follies of etiquette ill become such a place as this.  We must succumb to circumstances:  come, sit down, Bob; draw your bench to the chest, and there eat your share, while I wait on myself,” says Marston, touching Bob on the arm.  The words were no sooner uttered, than Bob’s countenance changed from the playful to the serious; he could see nothing but dignity in master, no matter in what sphere he might be placed.  His simple nature recoils at the idea of dispensing with the attention due from slave to master.  Master’s fallen fortunes, and the cheerless character of the chamber, are nothing to Daddy-master must keep up his dignity.