"But their manners, my son," she asked. "Do you see no difference between them and--and--and your father's, for instance?" and she motioned toward Richard who was now moving across the room to speak to other guests. "Dad is himself and you are yourself and I am myself," replied Oliver with some positiveness. "When people are kind I never stop to think how they do it." "Lovely," Miss Clendenning whispered to Nathan. "Spoken like a thoroughbred. Yes, he is BETTER than my ugly prince. He would always have remembered how they did it." "And you see no difference either in the ladies?" continued Mrs. Horn, with increasing interest in her tones. "Are the young girls as sweet and engaging?" She had seen Margaret's name rather often in his letters and wondered what impression she had made upon him. Oliver's eyes flashed and the color mounted to his cheeks. Miss Clendenning saw it and bent forward a little closer to get his answer. "Well, you see, mother, I do not know a great many, I am so shut up. Miss Grant, whom I wrote you about, is--well, you must see her. She is not the kind of girl that you can describe very well--she really is not the kind of girl that you can describe at all. We have been together all summer, and I stopped at her father's house for a few days when I came down from the mountains. They live in the most beautiful valley you ever saw." Miss Clendenning was watching him closely. She caught a look that his mother had missed. "Is she pretty, Ollie?" asked Miss Lavinia. "She is better than pretty. You would not say the Milo was pretty, would you? There is too much in her for prettiness." "And are the others like her?" The little lady was only feeling about, trying to put her finger on the pulse of his heart. "No; there is nobody like her. Nobody I have ever met." Miss Clendenning was sure now. Malachi's second entrance--this time with the great china bowl held above his head--again interrupted the general talk. Since the memory of man no such apple-toddy had ever been brewed! Even Colonel Clayton, when he tasted it, looked over his glass and nodded approvingly at its creator--a recognition of genius which that happy darky acknowledged by a slight bend of his back, anything else being out of the question by reason of the size of the bowl he was carrying and the presence of his master and of his master's guests. This deposited on a side table, another bowl filled with Olio--a most surprising and never-to-be-forgotten salad of chicken and celery and any number of other toothsome things--was placed beside it, together with a plate of moonshines and one of Maryland biscuits.