“Dunno what you call _quail_, but if you mean dis ere _peertridge_, better ax my old man dere, honey; he kin handle a gun now et a hunner year ole, good as any young feller going’, I tell yer all good; you hears me, don’t you?” replied the old woman, proudly and fondly rolling her head toward the back door, whither now Susan directed her eyes to see old Neptune standing there, leaning on his fowling-piece, and smiling meekly as was his wont. The old man took off his hat and handkerchief, and bowed with his usual gentle salute of— “Sarvint, Mist’ess.” “Good-morning, father—you brought these?” “Yes, Mist’ess—I trought how de Madam, looking delikky, would like somethin’ relishing for her breakfas’.” “I’ll tell her you brought it; you are so very good. I am sure she will value your kindness.” “’Taint nuffin much, Mist’ess; wish I could do more for de Madam; she do look _wonderful_ delikky.” And the old creature spoke sincerely; such an instance of thoughtful kindness was nothing unusual in his or his race; for there is not on all the earth, perhaps, a set of creatures more “kindly affectionate” than the old family servants of Maryland. This old man seemed delighted with the pleasure he had given, and setting down his gun, went and busied himself with chopping and piling up wood, and making himself “generally useful.” “Now, Mist’ess,” he said, “you has wood enough to las’ you all day.” “I am very much obliged to you, indeed. But I am not _Mistress_,” said Susan, smiling. “What shall I call you, then, honey?” “My name is Susan Copsewood, and I am only Lady Mont——Gemini!—I mean Mrs. Estel’s maid. So you may call me any thing you please except Mistress.” “Yes, Miss Susan,” replied the old man, mildly. “Aye! that will do very well. Call me that, father.” The old creature smiled; he was delighted to hear this rosy-cheeked, pleasant-spoken girl continue to call him father—not knowing that it was a title of respect Susan was in the habit of giving to very old men, of an humble class of life, in her native country. As the breakfast was now ready, this “neat-handed” maid arranged it carefully upon a waiter and carried it into the parlor, where she found her mistress seated at the table in her old attitude of mournful abstraction. Susan arranged the service upon the table and then, with the purpose of engaging her mistress in conversation, said, triumphantly— “There, my lady! look at that quail!” “Thank you, Susan,” answered the lady, abstractedly. “But you don’t look at it—you don’t ask where it came from.” Lady Montressor made no comment, and Susan slightly piqued, observed: “Oh, to be sure, we are in the fabulous country, where quails fly in at the kitchen windows, already roasted?” “My dear girl, what has vexed you?” inquired her ladyship, kindly, noticing now, for the first time, that her faithful attendant looked troubled.