“No, sah,--neber see him look better. Been up a li'l' late I reckon,--Marse Harry mos' gen'ally is a li'l' mite late, sah--” Todd chuckled. “But dat ain't nuthin' to dese gemmans. But he sho' do wanter see ye. Maybe he stayed all night at Mister Seymour's. If he did an' he yered de rumpus dese rapscallions kicked up--yes--dat's you I'm talkin' to”--and he looked toward the dogs--“he'll be roun' yere 'fo' ye gits fru yo' bre'kfus'. Dey do say as how Marse Harry's mighty sweet in dat quarter. Mister Langdon Willits's snoopin' roun' too, but Miss Kate ain't got no use fer him. He ain't quality dey say.” His master let him run on; Aunt Jemima was Todd's only outlet during his master's absence, and as this was sometimes clogged by an uplifted broom, he made the best use he could of the opportunities when he and his master were alone. When “comp'ny” were present he was as close-mouthed as a clam and as noiseless as a crab. “Who told you all this gossip, Todd?” exclaimed St. George with a smile, laying down his knife and fork. “Ain't nary one tol' me--ain't no use bein' tol'. All ye got to do is to keep yo' eyes open. Be a weddin' dar 'fo' spring. Look out, sah--dat shell's still a-sizzlin'. Mo' coffee, sah? Wait till I gits some hot waffles--won't take a minute!” and he was out of the room and downstairs before his master could answer. Hardly had he slammed the kitchen door behind him when the clatter and stamp of a horse's hoofs were heard Outside, followed by an impatient rat-a-tat-tat on the knocker. The boy dropped his dishes: “Fo' Gawd, dat's Mister Harry!” he cried as he started on a run for the door. “Don't nobody bang de do' down like dat but him.” A slender, thoroughly graceful young fellow of twenty-one or two, booted and spurred, his dark eyes flashing, his face tingling with the sting of the early morning air, dashed past the obsequious darky and burst into Temple's presence with the rush of a north-west breeze. He had ridden ten miles since he vaulted into the saddle, had never drawn rein uphill or down, and neither he nor the thoroughbred pawing the mud outside had turned a hair. “Hello, Uncle George!” Temple, as has been said, was Uncle George to every girl and youth in Kennedy Square.