"Yes, sar, he done that ar very thing, spang on the mouth," said Dilsey. "Well, Dilsey," said the doctor with a roguish twinkle of the eye, "don’t you think he ought to be paid?" Aunt Dilsey began to cry, and said, "I never thought that marster would laugh at old Aunt Dilsey." "Neither will I," said the doctor. Then tossing her a picayune, he said, "take that, Aunt Dilsey. I reckon it will pay for the kiss. I’ll see that Rondeau does not repeat his offense, on you at least." Aunt Dilsey went back to the kitchen, thinking that "Marster George was the funniest and best marster on earth." While Rondeau was carrying on his flirtation in the kitchen, Dr. Lacey was differently employed. Hope deferred had well nigh made his heart sick. "What can be the reason," thought he, "that Fanny does not write? I have written repeatedly for the last two months and have had no answer." Then as a new idea struck him, he added, "Yes, I’ll write to Mr. Miller, and ask him what has happened." Suiting the action to the word, he drew up his writing desk, and in a short time a letter was written and directed to Mr. Miller. He arose to summon Rondeau to take it to the office; but ere he had touched the bell rope, pride whispered, "Don’t send that letter; don’t let Mr. Miller into your private affairs. If Fanny were sick, some one would write to you." So the bell was not rung, and during the next half-hour Dr. Lacey amused himself by mechanically tearing it into small fragments. Ah, Dr. Lacey, ’twas a sorry moment when you listened to the whispering of that pride! Had that letter been sent, it would have saved you many sleepless nights of sorrow. But it was not to be.