When they reached Chericoke she shook hands with the servants and ran upstairs to Mrs. Lightfoot's chamber. The old lady, in her ruffled nightcap, which she always put on when she took to bed, was sitting upright under her dimity curtains, weeping over “Thaddeus of Warsaw.” There was a little bookstand at her bedside filled with her favourite romances, and at the beginning of the year she would start systematically to read from the first volume upon the top shelf to the last one in the corner near the door. “None of your newfangled writers for me, my dear,” she would protest, snapping her fingers at literature. “Why, they haven't enough sentiment to give their hero a title--and an untitled hero! I declare, I'd as lief have a plain heroine, and, before you know it, they'll be writing about their Sukey Sues, with pug noses, who eloped with their Bill Bates, from the nearest butcher shop. Ugh! don't talk to me about them! I opened one of Mr. Dickens's stories the other day and it was actually about a chimney sweep--a common chimney sweep from a workhouse! Why, I really felt as if I had been keeping low society.” Now, as she caught sight of Betty, she laid aside her book, wiped her eyes on a stiffly folded handkerchief, and became cheerful at once. “I warned Mr. Lightfoot not to dare to show his face without you,” she began; “so I suppose he brought you off by force.” “I was only too glad to come,” replied Betty, kissing her; “but what must I do for you first? Shall I rub your head with bay rum?” “There's nothing on earth the matter with my head, child,” retorted Mrs. Lightfoot, promptly, “but you may go downstairs, as soon as you take off your things, and make me some decent tea and toast. Cupid brought me up two waiters at dinner, and I wouldn't touch either of them with a ten-foot pole.” Betty took off her bonnet and shawl and hung them on a chair. “I'll go down at once and see about it,” she answered, “and I'll make Car'line put away my things. It's my old room I'm to have, I suppose.” “It's the whole house, if you want it, only don't let any of the darkies have a hand at my tea. It's their nature to slop.” “But it isn't mine,” Betty answered her, and ran, laughing, down into the dining room. “Dar ain' been no sich chunes sense young Miss rid away in de dead er de night time,” muttered Cupid, in the pantry. “Lawd, Lawd, I des wish you'd teck up wid Marse Champe, en move 'long over hyer fer good en all. I reckon dar 'ud be times, den, I reckon, dar 'ould.” “There are going to be times now, Uncle Cupid,” responded Betty, cheerfully, as she arranged the tray for Mrs. Lightfoot. “I'm going to make some tea and toast right on this fire for your old Miss. You bring the kettle, and I'll slice the bread.”