But after he had once invited me to share his rare beverage I could perceive that there was an intangible metamorphosis going on within him. It reminded me of Mr. Mansfield playing the character of Dr. Jekyll just before becoming Mr. Hyde, only with Dunlevy the character change was exactly the reverse: the genial GOOD in him seemed to thaw out. His eyes, usually drunk with thought, were now radiant and watery with feeling. His sensitiveness appeared to tingle in every pore. Perhaps he anticipated the effect that his liquor was to produce upon me. The negro brought me a glass filled with a thick posset. I drank a quarter of the tumblerful before I could take it from my lips. “My soul! What is this?” I asked, still tasting the grated nutmeg and the old-fashioned flavor of wild-cherry bounce. It seemed also to leave that delicate bouquet of real Medford rum. “You speak as though it were ambrosia,” said Dunlevy over his shoulder from his chair before the fire, “but as a matter of fact, it is only sangaree. You see, the reason I was surprised to see you was that I every now and then have a spell of sickness--feel queer about the head--that is all, and I don’t like to see anyone, you know; but as the janitor let you in, I am certainly glad to see you and I reckon you won’t mind me h’eh in this costume.” Here his southern accent broke out. “But this sangaree!” I exclaimed, finishing the liquor, “how in Heaven’s name is it made?” “Really I couldn’t tell you,” replied Dunlevy calmly, “Sandy makes it for me. He used to brew it or mix it or distill it, whichever you please, for my father before me. Didn’t you, Sandy?” “Yess, maarstar,” said Sandy, “that ah did! Right h’eh in this ole bowl, too, that Gin’rl La Fayette give to ole maarstar’s maarstar.” “Sandy,” interrupted Dunlevy, “I wish you would go down and tell the janitor that I wish to see him tonight.” It occurred to me, not only from this remark, but from the fact that I noticed a large writing book open on the centre table, that I had interrupted Dunlevy in his work, whatever it might be, and that it was high time for me to depart. The book was an odd looking volume as large as an office ledger, only very thin, and bound in sheepskin like a law book. Dunlevy had evidently been writing in it or was just about to do so, for a wet pen lay in the crotch between its pages. “Pray don’t hurry,” he said conventionally, as I took my hat. “I came up merely to give you the book on Ethics,” I answered, “and I would not have stopped at all, had you not asked me to join you in that beverage, and had I not felt that I needed some stimulant on this howling first of March. Good-night.--I say, would you mind giving me the receipt for your sangaree some day?” “Aha!” he smiled, “that’s a secret which I have never been able to worm out of Sandy.”