Speculation was rife among the servants of the household. All understood that something was wrong in the family. The Helmstedt servants took the part of their master, while the De Lancie negroes advocated the cause of their mistress. It was a very great trial to poor old Aunt Hapzibah, the housekeeper, to find her best efforts unavailing to make her master comfortable in the absence of her mistress. Every one likes to be appreciated; and no one more than an old family cook whose glory lies in her art; and so it proved too much for the philosophy of the old woman, who had taken much pride in letting “Marse Fillup see that eberyting went on as riglar as dough Miss Marget was home hersef”--to see her best endeavors unnoticed and her most _recherché_ dishes untasted. And so--partly for her own relief, and partly for the edification of her underlings in the kitchen, she frequently held forth upon the state of affairs in something like the following style: “De Lord bress de day an’ hour as ever I toted mysef inter dis here house! De Lord men’ it I pray! Wonner what Marse Fillup Hempseed mean a-scornin’ my bes’ cook dishes? Better not keep on a-’spisin’ de Lord’s good wittles--’deed hadn’ he if he is Marse Fillup Hempseed! Come to want bread if he does--’deed will he! Set him up! What he ’spect? Sen’ him young ducks an’ green peas? down dey comes ontotch! Try him wid lily white weal an’ spinnidge? down it come ontaste! Sen’ up spring chicken an’ sparrowgrass? all de same! I gwine stop of it now, I tell you good! ’deed is I. I ain’t gwine be fool long o’ Marse Fillup Hemps’d’s funnelly nonsense no longer! I gwine sen’ him up middlin’ and greens, or mutton an’ turnups--you hear me good, don’t you?” “I wonder what does ail master?” remarked Hildreth. “I know what ail him well ’nough! I know de reason why he won’t eat his wittles!” “What is it, den?” “He can’t eat anyt’ing else case he’s--eatin’ his own heart! An’ it makes men mad--that sort o’ eatin’ does!” “My Lors!” ejaculated Hildreth, in real or affected horror. “Eatin’ his own heart,” continued old Hapzibah--“eatin’ his own heart, wid his black eagle head an’ hook nose poke down in his buzzum a-chawin’ an’ a-chawin’! Always a-chawin’ an’ a-chawin’! Walkin’ up an’ down de peeazzy a-chawin’ an’ a-chawin’. Stan’in’ up to his screwtaw, ’tendin’ to write, but only a-chawin’ an’ a-chawin’. Settin’ down at de table, a-chawin’ an’ a-chawin’--not my good wittles, mine you, but his own heart--always his own heart. He better stop of it, too. It won’t ’gest, nor likewise ’gree wid him, nor udderwise fetch Miss Marget home one minit ’fore she thinks proper for to come.” “Well, den, ennyways, t’ink it ’pears mon’ous strange your Miss Marget don’t come home ef our Marse Fillup wants her to come,” here put in old Neptune, one of the Helmstedt negroes.