mmonly called "Taters,"
once a servant of Frederick Fanning, the landlord of White Perch Point,
but now a hired hand of John Lytton's.

Mithridates, or Taters, rode an infirm-looking old draft horse, with a
dilapidated saddle and bridle, and wore a hat and coat exceedingly
shabby for a gentleman's servant.

He also led a second horse, furnished with a side-saddle.

He dismounted at the carriage-steps, tied the horses to a tree, and
boldly went to the front door and knocked.

Jerome opened it, and administered a sharp rebuke to the messenger for
presuming to knock at the visitors' door instead of at the servants'.

"If I'd a come to the servants' I'd rapped at the servants' door; but as
I have comed to the white folks' I rap at dere door. Here; I've fotch a
letter from Marse Jacky Lytton to his niece, Miss Lorrer," said Taters,
pompously.

"Give it to me then, and I'll take it in to her," said Jerome.

"Set you up with it! I must 'liver of this here letter with my own hands
inter her own hands," said Taters, stoutly.

"Well, come along, for a fool! You're a purty looking objick to denounce
into the parlor, a'n't you now?" said Jerome, leading the way.

At that moment, unseen by Jerome, but distinctly seen by Taters, a face
appeared at the head of the stairs for an instant, but meeting the eye
of Taters turned white as death and vanished.

Taters uttered a terrible cry and sank, ashen pale and quaking with
horror, at the foot of the steps.

"Why, what in the name of the old boy is the matter with you, man? Have
you trod on a nail or piece of glass, or anything that has gone through
your foot, or what is it?" demanded Jerome, in astonishment.

"Oh, no, no, no! it's worse'n that--it's worse'n that! It's no end
worse'n that! Oh, Lor'! oh, Lor'! oh, Lor'!" cried Taters, holding his
knees and sawing backward and forward in an agony of horror.

"Ef you don't stop that howlin' and tell me what's the matter of you I'm
blessed ef I don't get a bucket of ice water and heave it all over you
to fetch you to your senses!" exclaimed the exasperated Jerome.

"Oh, Lor', don't! Oh, please don't! I shill die quick enough now without
that!" cried Taters, writhing horribly.

"What's the matter, you born iddiwut?" roared Jerome, in a fury.

"Oh, I've seen a sperrit--I've seen a sperrit! I've seen the sperrit of
my young mistress! And it's a token of my death!" wailed the negro boy
in agony.

"What's that you say--a sperrit