r, amused.

"But whuffo, whuffo, nigger, is it dat you ain't come to de kitchen an'
eat off'n de shelf? Is you sick?"

Peter admitted fair bodily vigor.

"Den whut de debbil is I got into!" cried Rose, angrily. "I ain't gwine
wuck at no sich place, ca'yin' breakfus' to a big beef uv a nigger,
stout as a mule. Say, nigger, wha-chu doin' in heah, anyway? Hoccum
dis?"

Peter tried to explain that he was there to do a little writing for the
Captain.

"Well, 'fo' Gawd, when niggers gits to writin' fuh white folks, ants'll
be jumpin' fuh bullfrogs--an havin' other niggers bring dey breakfusses.
You jes as much a nigger as I is, Peter Siner, de brightes' day you ever
seen!"

Peter began a conciliatory phrase.

Old Rose banged the platter on the table and then threatened:

"Dis is de las' time I fetches a moufful to you, Peter Siner, or any
other nigger. You ain't no black Jesus, even ef you is a woods calf."

Peter paused in drawing a chair to the table.

"What did you say, Rose?" he asked sharply.

"You heared whut I say."

A wave of anger went over Peter.

"Yes, I did. You ought to be ashamed to speak ill of the dead."

The crone tossed her malicious head, a little abashed, perhaps, yet very
glad she had succeeded in hurting Peter. She turned and went out the
door, mumbling something which might have been apology or renewed
invectives.

Peter watched the old virago close the door and then sat down to his
breakfast. His anger presently died away, and he sat wondering what
could have happened to Rose Hobbett that had corroded her whole
existence. Did she enjoy her vituperation, her continual malice? He
tried to imagine how she felt.

The breakfast Rose had brought him was delicious: hot biscuits of
feathery lightness, three wide slices of ham, a bowl of scrambled eggs,
a pot of coffee, some preserved raspberries, and a tiny glass of whisky.

The plate which Captain Renfrew had set before his guest was a delicate
dawn pink ringed with a wreath of holly. It was old Worcester porcelain
of about the decade of 1760. The coffee-pot was really an old Whieldon
teapot in broad cauliflower design. Age and careless heating had given
the surface a fine reticulation. His cup and saucer, on the contrary,
were thick pieces of ware such as the cabin-boys toss about on
steamboats. The whole ceramic melange told of the fortuities of English
colonial and early American life, of the migration of families westward.
No doubt,