“Thanky, Mas’ Bob, thanky.” The old Negro said it as fervently as if he had not worn out that old broadcloth a dozen years ago. “It’s late and we’ve got to hurry if we want things prepared in time. Tell Lize that I want her to let herself out on that dinner. Your Mas’ Bob and your Mas’ Stanton are going to be home to-morrow, and I want to show them that their father’s house hasn’t lost any of the qualities that have made it famous in Virginia for a hundred years. Ike, there ain’t anything in this world for making men out of boys like making them feel the debt they owe to their name and family.” “Yes, suh, Mas’ Bob an’ Mas’ Stant sholy is mighty fine men.” “There ain’t two finer in the whole country, sir,—no, sir, not in all Virginia, and that of necessity means the whole country. Now, Ike, I want you to get out some of that wine up in the second cellar, and when I say some I mean plenty. It ain’t seen the light for years, but it shall gurgle into the glasses to-morrow in honour of my sons’ home-coming. Good wine makes good blood, and who should drink good wine if not an Estridge of Virginia, sir, eh, Ike?” The wine had gone to make good cheer when a Federal regiment had lighted its campfires on the Estridge lawn, but old Ike had heard it too often before and knew his business too well to give any sign. “I want you to take some things up to Miss Clarinda Randolph to-morrow, too, and I’ve got a silver snuffbox for Thomas Daniels. I can’t make many presents this year. I’ve got to devote my money to the interest of your young masters.” There was a catch in the Negro’s voice as he replied, “Yes, Mas’ Estridge, dey needs it mos’, dey needs it mos’.” The old colonel’s spell of talking seldom lasted long, and now he fell to eating in silence; but his face was the face of one in a dream. Ike waited on him until he had done, and then, clearing the things away, slipped out, leaving him to sit and muse in his chair by the window. “Look hyeah, Lize,” said the old servant, as he entered his wife’s cabin a little later. “Pleggoned ef I didn’t come purt’ nigh brekin’ down dis mo’nin’.” “Wha’ ’s de mattah wif you, Ike?” “Jes’ a-listenin’ to ol’ Mas’ a-sittin’ dah a-talkin’ lak it was de ol’ times,—a-sendin’ messages to ol’ Miss Randolph, dat’s been daid too long to talk about, an’ to Mas’ Tom Daniels, dat went acrost de wateh ruther ’n tek de oaf o’ ’legiance.” “Oomph,” said the old lady, wiping her eyes on her cotton apron. “Den he expectin’ Mas’ Bob an’ Mas’ Stant home to-morrer. ’Clah to goodness, when he say dat I lak to hollahed right out.” “Den you would ’a’ fixed it, wouldn’t you? Set down an’ eat yo’ breakfus’, Ike, an’ don’t you nevah let on when Mas’ Estridge talkin’, you jes’ go ’long ’bout yo’ wuk an’ keep yo’ mouf shet, ’ca’se ef evah he wake up now he gwine to die right straight off.”