The sun streamed in upon the happy group, and seemed to smile with positive delight at sight of Redbud's happy face, surrounded by its waving mass of curls--and soft blue eyes, which were the perfection of tenderness and joy. He smiled on Verty, too, the jovial sun, and illumined the young man's handsome, dreamy face, and profuse locks, and uncouth hunter costume, with a gush of light which made him like a picture of some antique master, thrown upon canvas in a golden mood, to live forever. All the figures and objects in the room were gay in the bright sunlight, too--the shaggy head of Mr. Rushton, and the jovial, ruddy face of the Squire, and Miss Lavinia's dignified and stately figure, solemn and imposing, flanked by the silver jug and urn--and on the old ticking clock, and antique furniture, and smiling portraits, and recumbent Caesar, did it shine, merry and laughing, taking its pastime ere it went away to other lands, like a great, cheerful simple soul, smiling at nature and all human life. And the talk of all was like the sunshine. The old Squire was king of the breakfast table, and broke many a jesting shaft at one and all, not even sparing the stately Miss Lavinia, and the rugged bear who scowled across the table. "Good bread for once," said the Squire, slashing into the smoking loaf; astonishing how dull those negroes are--not to be able to learn such a simple thing as baking." "Simple!" muttered the lawyer, "it is not simple! If you recollected something of chemistry, you would acknowledge that baking bread was no slight achievement." "Come, growl again," said his host, laughing; "come, now, indulge your habit, and say the bread is sour." "It is!" "What!--sour!" "Yes." The Squire stands aghast--or rather sits, laboring under that sentiment. "It is the best bread we have had for six months," he says, at length, "and as sweet as a nut." "You have no taste," says Mr. Rushton. "No taste?" "None: and the fact that it is the best you have had for six months is not material testimony. You may have had _lead_ every morning--humph!" And Mr. Rushton continues his breakfast. The Squire laughs. "There you are--in a bad humor," he says. "I am not." "Come! say that the broil is bad!" "It is burnt to a cinder." "Burnt? Why it's underdone!" "Well, sir--every man to his taste--you may have yours; leave me mine." "Oh, certainly; I see you are determined to like nothing. You'll say next that Lavinia's butter is not sweet." The lawyer growls. "I have no desire to offend Miss Lavinia," he says, solemnly; "but I'll take my oath that there's garlic in it--yes, sir, garlic!" The Squire bursts into a roar of laughter.