“Hi! young Marsters, hit's ter-morrow!” he exclaimed. “To-morrow! I wish it were to-morrow,” responded Dan, cheerfully. “The fire makes my head spin like a top. Here, come and pull off my coat, Big Abel, or I'll have to go to bed with my clothes on.” Big Abel pulled off the coat and brushed it carefully; then he held out his hand for Champe's. “I hope dis yer coat ain' gwine lose hit's set 'fo' hit gits ter me,” he muttered as he hung them up. “Seems like you don' teck no cyar yo' clothes, nohow, Marse Dan. I'se de wuss dress somebody dis yer side er de po' w'ite trash. Wat's de use er bein' de quality ef'n you ain' got de close?” “Stop grumbling, you fool you,” returned Dan, with his lordly air. “If it's my second best evening suit you're after, you may take it; but I tell you now, it's the last thing you're going to get out of me till summer.” Big Abel took down the second best suit of clothes and examined them with an interest they had never inspired before. “I d'clar you sutney does set hard,” he remarked after a moment, and added, tentatively, “I dunno whar de shuts gwine come f'om.” “Not from me,” replied Dan, airily; “and now get out of here, for I'm going to sleep.” But when he threw himself upon his bed it was to toss with feverish rose-coloured dreams until the daybreak. His blood was still warm when he came down to breakfast; but he met his grandfather's genial jests with a boyish attempt at counter-buff. “Oh, you needn't twit me, sir,” he said with an embarrassed laugh; “to wear the heart upon the sleeve is hereditary with us, you know.” “Keep clear of the daws, my son, and it does no harm,” responded the Major. “There's nothing so becoming to a gentleman as a fine heart well worn, eh, Molly?” He carefully spread the butter upon his cakes, for his day of love-making was over, and his eye could hold its twinkle while he watched Dan fidget in his seat. Mrs. Lightfoot promptly took up the challenge. “For my part I prefer one under a buttoned coat,” she replied briskly; “but be careful, Mr. Lightfoot, or you will put notions into the boys' heads. They are at the age when a man has a fancy a day and gets over it before he knows it.” “They are at the age when I had my fancy for you, Molly,” gallantly retorted the Major, “and I seem to be carrying it with me to my grave.” “It would be a dull wit that would go roving from Aunt Molly,” said Champe, affectionately; “but there aren't many of her kind in the world.” “I never found but one like her,” admitted the Major, “and I've seen a good deal in my day, sir.” The old lady listened with a smile, though she spoke in a severe voice. “You mustn't let them teach you how to flatter, Mr. Morson,” she said warningly, as she filled the Major's second cup of coffee--“Cupid, Mr. Morson will have a partridge.”