iling, smacked his mouth, and added: "I gwine
fetch in de batter-cakes myse'f."

Miss Tewksbury felt in her soul that she ought to be horrified at this
recital; but she was grateful that she was not amused.

"Aunt Harriet," cried Helen, when William had disappeared, "this is
better than the seashore. I am stronger already. My only regret is that
Henry P. Bassett, the novelist, is not here. The last time I saw him, he
was moping and complaining that his occupation was almost gone, because
he had exhausted all the types--that's what he calls them. He declared
he would be compelled to take his old characters, and give them a new
outfit of emotions. Oh, if he were only here!"

"I hope you feel that you are, in some sense, responsible for all this,
Helen," said Miss Tewksbury solemnly.

"Do you mean the journey, Aunt Harriet, or the little negro?"

"My dear child, don't pretend to misunderstand me. I can not help
feeling that if we had done and were doing our whole duty, this--this
poor negro-- Ah, well! it is useless to speak of it. We are on
missionary ground, but our hands are tied. Oh, I wish Elizabeth Mappis
were here! She would teach us our duty."

"She wouldn't teach me mine, Aunt Harriet," said Helen seriously. "I
wouldn't give one grain of your common sense for all that Elizabeth
Mappis has written and spoken. What have her wild theories to do with
these people? She acts like a man in disguise. When I see her striding
about, delivering her harangues, I always imagine she is wearing a pair
of cowhide boots as a sort of stimulus to her masculinity. Ugh! I'm glad
she isn't here."

Ordinarily, Miss Tewksbury would have defended Mrs. Elizabeth Mappis;
but she remembered that a defense of that remarkable woman--as
remarkable for her intellect as for her courage--was unnecessary at all
times, and, in this instance, absolutely uncalled for. Moreover, the
clangor of the supper-bell, which rang out at that moment, would have
effectually drowned out whatever Miss Tewksbury might have chosen to say
in behalf of Mrs. Mappis.

The bellringer was William, the genial little negro whose acquaintance
the ladies had made, and he performed his duty with an unction that left
nothing to be desired. The bell was so large that William was compelled
to use both hands in swinging it. He bore it from the dining-room to the
hall, and thence from one veranda to the other, making fuss enough to
convince everybody that those who ate at t