“Have you fed No. One?” he asked. “Yes, sir,” said a gruff voice, apparently belonging to a domestic. “How’s No. Two?” “She’s a little off her feed, just now, but will pick up in a day or two.” “And No. Three?” “Perfectly furious, sir. Her tantrums are ungovernable.” “Hush!” The voices died away, and I sank into a fitful slumber. I dreamed that I was wandering through a tropical forest. Suddenly I saw the figure of a gorilla approaching me. As it neared me, I recognized the features of Mr. Rawjester. He held his hand to his side as if in pain. I saw that he had been wounded. He recognized me and called me by name, but at the same moment the vision changed to an Ashantee village, where, around the fire, a group of negroes were dancing and participating in some wild Obi festival. I awoke with the strain still ringing in my ears. “Hokee-pokee wokee fum!” Good Heavens! could I be dreaming? I heard the voice distinctly on the floor below, and smelt something burning. I arose, with an indistinct presentiment of evil, and hastily putting some cotton in my ears and tying a towel about my head, I wrapped myself in a shawl and rushed downstairs. The door of Mr. Rawjester’s room was open. I entered. Mr. Rawjester lay apparently in a deep slumber, from which even the clouds of smoke that came from the burning curtains of his bed could not rouse him. Around the room a large and powerful negress, scantily attired, with her head adorned with feathers, was dancing wildly, accompanying herself with bone castanets. It looked like some terrible fetich. I did not lose my calmness. After firmly emptying the pitcher, basin, and slop-jar on the burning bed, I proceeded cautiously to the garden, and returning with the garden engine, I directed a small stream at Mr. Rawjester. At my entrance the gigantic negress fled. Mr. Rawjester yawned and woke. I explained to him, as he rose dripping from the bed, the reason of my presence. He did not seem to be excited, alarmed, or discomposed. He gazed at me curiously. “So you risked your life to save mine, eh? you canary-colored teacher of infants.” I blushed modestly, and drew my shawl tightly over my yellow flannel nightgown. “You love me, Mary Jane,—don’t deny it! This trembling shows it!” He drew me closely toward him, and said, with his deep voice tenderly modulated,—“How’s her pooty tootens,—did she get her ’ittle tootens wet,—b’ess her?” I understood his allusion to my feet. I glanced down and saw that in my hurry I had put on a pair of his old india-rubbers. My feet were not small or pretty, and the addition did not add to their beauty. “Let me go, sir,” I remarked quietly. “This is entirely improper; it sets a bad example for your child.” And I firmly but gently extricated myself from his grasp. I approached the door. He seemed for a moment buried in deep thought. “You say this was a negress?” “Yes, sir.” “Humph, Number One, I suppose.” “Who is Number One, sir?”