Cupid brought the kettle, grumbling. “I ain' never hyern tell er sich a mouf es ole Miss es got,” he muttered. “I ain' sayin' nuttin' agin er stomick, case she ain' never let de stuff git down dat fur--en de stomick hit ain' never tase it yit.” “Oh, stop grumbling, Uncle Cupid,” returned Betty, moving briskly about the room. She brought the daintiest tea cup from the old sideboard, and leaned out of the window to pluck a late microphylla rosebud from the creeper upon the porch. Then, with the bread on the end of a long fork, she sat before the fire and asked Cupid about the health and fortunes of the house servants and the field hands. “I ain' mix wid no fiel' han's,” grunted Cupid, with a social pride befitting the Major. “Dar ain' no use er my mixin' en I ain' mix. Dey stay in dere place en I stay in my place--en dere place hit's de quarters, en my place hit's de dinin' 'oom.” “But Aunt Rhody--how's she?” inquired Betty, pleasantly, “and Big Abel? He didn't go back to college, did he?” “Zeke, he went,” replied Cupid, “en Big Abel he wuz bleeged ter stay behint 'case his wife Saphiry she des put 'er foot right down. Ef'n he 'uz gwine off again, sez she, she 'uz des gwine tu'n right in en git mah'ed agin. She ain' so sho', nohow, dat two husban's ain' better'n one, is Saphiry, en she got 'mos' a min' ter try hit. So Big Abel he des stayed behint.” “That was wise of Big Abel,” remarked Betty. “Now open the door, Uncle Cupid, and I'll carry this upstairs,” and as Cupid threw open the door, she went out, holding the tray before her. The old lady received her graciously, ate the toast and drank the tea, and even admitted that it couldn't have been better if she had made it with her own hands. “I think that you will have to come and live with me, Betty,” she said good-humouredly. “What a pity you can't fancy one of those useless boys of mine. Not that I'd have you marry Dan, child, the Major has spoiled him to death, and now he's beginning to repent it; but Champe, Champe is a good and clever lad and would make a mild and amiable husband, I am sure. Don't marry a man with too much spirit, my dear; if a man has any extra spirit, he usually expends it in breaking his wife's.” “Oh, I shan't marry yet awhile,” replied Betty, looking out upon the falling autumn leaves. “So I said the day before I married Mr. Lightfoot,” rejoined the old lady, settling her pillows, “and now, if you have nothing better to do, you might read me a chapter of 'Thaddeus of Warsaw'; you will find it to be a book of very pretty sentiment.” IX THE MONTJOY BLOOD