he store--up
stairs. If I'm a judge, you've been used to pleasanter places; however,
I presume it will soon be home to you. Here, Jeff," beckoning to a tall
negro near by, "tote this trunk up for your young masters."

"Jeff" appeared, and with a scrape and a bow signified his readiness to
show the brothers to their room, and nodding to Wilkins, they followed
the negro to the back part of the store, where a long winding staircase
led to the floor above.

They had reached the stair foot, when Wilkins, who had been observing
them, hurried after them, and holding out his hand to Gulian, said:
"Don't get a bad impression of all of us here by the dingy room you'll
find up there; notwithstanding you meet such a rough welcome, I hope
you'll learn to like us and be happy."

"Thank you," said Guly, shaking his hand warmly, and feeling pleased at
his frank, honest manner, "I've no doubt we shall be very good friends.
Good-night."

"Good-night," returned Wilkins, and he stood watching the boy as he
mounted the steep staircase, until the golden curls and young face were
lost to sight. He turned away then with a short deep sigh, which sounded
almost like a gasp, and thoughtfully resumed his station near the door.

"Dis is a gloomsome sort of place, young massa," said Jeff, the negro,
as he placed the trunk at the foot of the bed and turned towards Guly,
who was trying to look through the dingy window; "howsomever, 'taint
quite so bad in the day time."

"What makes it more pleasant then?" asked the boy.

"Oh," said Jeff, "when 'tis light you can look straight down from here
into de neighbors' kitchens; you can see all dey hab for dinner, how dey
'conomize, how different de misses are drest in de backdoor to what dey
are when dey come out de front, and all dat."

"A pleasant occupation, truly," laughed Guly. "Does any one sleep in the
store beside ourselves?"

"Massa Wilkins, sah, and me. Massa Wilkins' room is down below, just
under the stairs; I sleeps behind the big door on the floor, and play
watch-dog for master."

"What's your name besides Jeff?" asked Arthur, amused at the loquacity
of the black.

"Same as my father's, sah."

"And what is your father's?"

"Well," said the negro, twisting a lock of wool in his fingers, "dat's a
puzzler! His fust name's Voltaire, and I guess his last one's Delancey,
'cause he belongs to master, and his belongings generally take his
name--sich as Delancey's hosses and Delancey's ni