"Sally Frenche!" said I;--"ho, ho, I am in soundings here, mayhap--Pray, do you know old Mr Lathom Frenche, my good lady--a rich old chap, who lives somewhere hereabout, at a place called Ballywindle?" My simple enquiry appeared to have an electrical effect, and at the same time to have given some unaccountable and serious offence;--for my talkative hostess, a deuced buxom-looking dingy dame, of some forty years or so, now drew herself up, and crossed her arms, looking as prim as mustard at me, as she slowly grumbled out-- "Do--me--Sally Frenche--know--one--reesh--old--chap--dem call--Massa Latom Frenche--who--live--at one place somewhere hereabout--dat dem call Ballywindle?" "Yes," said I, a good deal surprised at the tone and manner in which she drawled out her words--"I mean no offence--I ask you a plain question--Do you know Mr Lathom Frenche of Ballywindle? I am a near relation of his, and desirous of engaging horses, or some kind of conveyance, to proceed to his house in the morning." She here came round to the side of the table where I sat, shoving the black servant who had been waiting on us away so forcibly, that he spun into the corner of the room, with an exclamation of--"Heigh, misses, wurra dat for?"--and shading her eyes from the glare of the candles with her hand, she fell to perusing my face in a way that was any thing but pleasant. "Ha, ha--Sally Frenche know something--I see--I see--you must be de _nyung buccra_, Massa Latom is look out for so hanxious--so tell me, is you really and truly Massa Benjamin Brail, old Massa nephew?" "I am certainly that gentleman, old lady." "_Hold_ ladee, indeed--Ah, Jacka--but never mind. You is my family, and so you is--but don't call me _hold_ lady, if you please, again, _nyung massa_. Let me see--you hab him mout, and him nose, and de wery cack of him yeye. Oh dear, you is Massa Benjamin, for true you is de leetle boy dat de old man look out for so long--here, Teemoty, Peeta, Daroty--here is your cosin, Massa Benjamin--Oh, massa neger, I am so happy"--and she began to roll about the room, sprawling with her feet, and walloping her arms about, seizing hold of a chair here, and a table there, as if the excess of her joy, and the uproariousness of her laughter, had driven her beside herself. At her call two tall, young mulatto fellows, with necks like cranes, and bushy heads like the long brooms used to clean staircases, without stockings or neckcloths, dressed in white duck trowsers, and blue coatees, and a very pretty, well-dressed brown girl, of about eighteen, presented themselves at the door of the room. "Pray, who are those?" said I, during a lull of the matron's paroxysm. "Who dem is? why your own cosin--your own flesh and blood--your oncle, God bless him--him children dem is, all--ay, every one on dem." "And who is their mamma?" said I--"Not you, ma'am?"