Mr. DeVere laughed musically, and stooping down drew a pine splinter from one of his toes. Then he approached his mother and saluted her with that chivalrous reverence and courtesy that still lingers among sons of the South. "What shall we have for supper, mammy?" he said. "Whatever you d--- please," said Mrs. DeVere. Aubrey DeVere reached out his hand and seized one of the chickens that roosted upon the piano. He wrung its neck and threw its quivering and fluttering body upon the delicate Brussels carpet. He took a long stride and stood before me, towering like an avenging god, with one arm upraised, the other pointing to the fowl, struggling in its death agonies. "That is the South," he cried, in a voice of thunder; "the bleeding and dying South after Gettysburg. Tonight you will feast upon its carcass, as your countrymen have been doing for the last thirty years." He hurled the head of the chicken into my face with a terrible oath, and then dropped on one knee and bowed his kingly head. "Pardon me, Miss Cook," he said, "I do not mean to offend you. Twenty-eight years ago today, my father was killed at the battle of Shiloh." * * * * * When the supper bell rang I was invited into a long, lofty room, wainscoted with dark oak and lighted by paraffine candles. Aubrey DeVere sat at the foot of the table and carved. He had taken off his coat, and his clinging undershirt revealed every muscle of a torso as grand as that of the Dying Gladiator in the Vatican at Rome. The supper was truly a Southern one. At one end was an enormous grinning opossum and sweet potatoes, while the table was covered with dishes of cabbage, fried chicken, fruit cake, persimmons, hot raw biscuits, blackhaws, Maypops, fried catfish, maple syrup, hominy, ice cream, sausages, bananas, crackling bread, pineapples, squashes, wild grapes and apple pies. Pete, the colored man, waited upon us, and once in handing Mr. DeVere the gravy he spilled a little of it upon the tablecloth. With a yell like a tiger, Aubrey DeVere sprang to his feet and hurled his carving knife to the handle in Pete's breast. The poor colored man fell to the floor, and I ran and lifted his head. "Goodbye, missie," he whispered. "I hear de angels singing, and I sees de bressed Mars Abraham Linkum smilin' at me from near de great white th'one. Goodbye missie, Ol' Pete am goin' home.' I rose and faced Mr. DeVere. "Inhuman monster!" I cried. "You have killed him!" He touched a silver bell and another servant appeared. "Take this body out and bring me a clean knife," he commanded. "Resume your seat, Miss Cook. Like all your countrymen, you evince a penchant for dark meat. Mammy, dear, can I send you a choice bit of the 'possum?" * * * * *