“I move we don’t say another word about it, but take our part quietly,” says Mrs. Rosebrook, insinuating that Mr. Scranton had better be left to take his refreshment comfortably; that he is a little misanthropic; that he must be cheered up.  “Come, my boys"-directing her conversation to the negroes-"see that Mr. Scranton is cared for.  And you must summon Daddy; tell him to get the carriage ready, to put on his best blue coat,—­that we are going to take Mr. Scranton over the plantation, to show him how things can prosper when we ladies take a hand in the management.”  The negro leaves to execute the order:  Mr. Scranton remains mute, now and then sipping his wine.  He imagines himself in a small paradise, but “hadn’t the least idea how it was made such a place by niggers.”  Why, they are just the smartest things in the shape of property that could be started up.  Regular dandy niggers, dressed up to “shine so,” they set him thinking there was something in his politics not just straight.  And then, there was so much intelligence, so much politeness about the critters!  Why, if it had not been for the doctrines he had so long held, he would have felt bashful at his want of ease and suavity,—­things seldom taught in the New England village where our pro-slavery advocate was born and educated.

Presently servants are seen outside, running here and there, their eyes glistening with anxiety, as if preparing for a May-day festival.  Old Dolly, the cook, shining with the importance of her profession, stands her greasy portions in the kitchen door, scolds away at old Dad, whose face smiles with good-nature as he fusses over the carriage, wipes it, rubs it, and brushes it, every now and then stopping to see if it will reflect his full black face.  Little woolly-headed urchins are toddling round old Maum Dolly, pulling the folds of her frock, teasing for cakes and fritters.  One, more expert in mischief, has perched himself in an aperture over the door, substituting himself for the old black hat with which it is usually filled.  Here, his face like a full moon in a cloud, he twists his moving fingers into the ingeniously-tied knot of Dolly’s bandana, which he cunningly draws from her head.  Ben and Loblolly, two minor sprats of the race, are seated in the centre of the yard, contending for the leaves of a picture-book, which, to appease their characteristic inquisitiveness, they have dissected.  Daddy has the horses ready and the carriage waiting; and Uncle Bradshaw, the coachman, and C‘sar, the likely fellow, wait at the door with as much satisfaction expressed in their faces as if it were all for them.  Missus is not to be outdone in expertness:  a few minutes ago she was “snaring” Mr. Scranton with his own philosophy; now she is ready to take her seat.

“Missus!  I wants t’ go down yander wid ye, I doe,” says Daddy, approaching her with hand extended, and working his black face up into a broad grin as he detects Mr. Scranton’s awkwardness in getting into the carriage.