“Yes, massa;” and the black, taking the tray in his hands, cast a glance, first at the beautiful face of the young girl, then over his shoulder at his master, and, gravely shaking his grey pate, left the library. Leslie completed the paragraph he was reading, and then, lifting his face and looking into the fire, but without turning round, said in the low, pleasant tone natural to him: “So, my good woman, you have brought the shirts. They have come an hour later than you promised them, but I suppose you are very much hurried with work. They are in plenty time, however. Be so kind as to undo the package and let me see one of them.” For a few moments there was no sound in the room but the snapping of strings, as they were untied by the busy fingers of the linen-draper’s maid, and the rattling of the strong paper covering the linens. At length a shirt, white as the drifted snow and beautifully done up, was hesitatingly advanced over his shoulder, so as to intercept his vision. He took it, and after carefully examining it (old bachelors are very particular in this matter) with an appearance of satisfaction, admiring the stitching of the wristbands, the French style of the sleeves, and the neatness of the bosom folds, he laid it down beside him where the tea tray had stood. “Well, my good woman, I am very much pleased with them. They are very neatly made. Please let me see your bill.” And he turned his head slightly back to receive it. The young girl, embarrassed by his mode of addressing her, and abashed at his presence, timidly stretched forth her hand containing the bill. “Nearer, woman, nearer. I cannot reach it.” Agitated by his voice, she thrust her arm forward so quickly that he received in his grasp her hand as well as her bill. The sight and touch of the soft, white member, thrilled through him. He started, blushed, rose from his chair, and to his surprise discovered that he had been all the while talking to one of the loveliest girls of seventeen he had ever seen, instead of an old woman, whom he supposed was the bearer of his linens. “Pardon me, miss—I beg pardon,” said the Major embarrassed, “I thought you were your mother.” “I have no mother, sir,” answered the pretty maiden, with a drooping eyelid. “I beg pardon! Sit down! No, you may stand! Upon my word you are very beautiful.” The Major hardly knew what he said. “Sir, the bill if you please,” said the maiden confused, her bright intelligent face suffused with crimson. “Oh, ah! sit down if you please! no—stand up; no, no, no! _sit down!_” Poor Major Pierpoint! “No, I thank you, sir.” “What a sweet voice,” soliloquized the Major to himself. “No mother?” “No, sir,” with a musical sadness in her voice, touching as it was natural. “No father?” asked the Major with as much delicacy as he could put the question. “No, sir.” “No brothers, neither, I dare say.” “No, sir.” “Nor sisters, either?” “No, sir.” “Ho! hah, hem!”