By the time we had come up to the front path to the veranda the coloured man had come out from the kitchen and in most melodious tones said, “Minerva wanted to know if you would like dinner served on the piazza, the evening being so pleasant.” Delmonico never had a head waiter with the aplomb, the native dignity, the utter unconsciousness of self that this superbly built man displayed. I felt that we had suddenly fallen heir to a fortune, and a group of retainers, and trying to play my part to the best of my ability I said, “By all means—er—” “James.” “By all means, James. Is it ready?” “I will ascertain in a moment sir,” said this yellow prince, and retired to the kitchen, whence he emerged in a moment. “A slight retention in the oven in regard to the roast, sir, but the soup will be ready immejutly.” Ethel had gone up stairs at once. I nodded my head gravely and said, “Very well, James,” and then I went up to make my toilet. “The tide has turned, Ethel,” said I when I reached the room. “A kind Providence has sent the grandson of some Senegambian king to wait on us and to amuse Minerva between meals. Put a ribbon in your hair, and I will put a buttercup in my button hole, or I will dress, if you say so, and we will put on the style that befits us.” “Who is that man?” said Ethel. “In fairy stories wise people never question. They accept. This is the constable’s driver, and he was probably attracted here by the dread strains of the accordeon. Let us make the most of him. I am quite sure he is going to serve dinner, and I feel it in my bones that he will do it well.” And he did do it well and the dinner was worth serving. It had been delayed by the concert, there was no doubt of that, and it was nearly eight when we sat down to it, but the silent, graceful fellow, moved noiselessly in and out from kitchen to verandah, the whippoorwills sang to us, the roses filled the air with fragrance, and a silver crescent in the west rode to its couch full sleepily. This may sound poetic. If it does it is because we felt satisfied with everything once more, and satisfaction is poetry. After the dinner was over Ethel went out into the kitchen about something and found Minerva smiling and bustling around to get the dishes washed in a hurry. “Mis. Vernon,” said she, “that man wants to know if Mist. Vernon has any work for him to do.” “That man” was out on the veranda clearing away the dessert dishes. “I’ll see,” said Ethel. “How did he happen to come here?”