The one jarring note during that first meal under his grandmother's roof was the apparition of the negress who had dared to offer to kiss him. To be sure, when she appeared this time, it was with a plate of smoking squares of Johnny-cake; but Ethan couldn't meet her eye, and shrank under his blue serge jacket when she came behind his chair to offer him that delectable staple of a Southern supper-table. He did not notice that the meal was very plain, it was all so good, and the silver on the table was much prettier than that Miss Tallmadge presided over in Boston. While his Aunt Valeria and his grandmother talked, he ate steadily, and regarded with awe the immensely tall coffee-pot and other things that were covered all over with trees and little pagoda-like buildings in repoussé. Seeing Mrs. Gano behind this service gave him an impression of her wealth and magnificence that no after series of meagre meals and authentic knowledge of her poverty was ever able quite to efface. Observing the child craning his neck to see the inscription on the sugar-bowl, she turned it towards him. "It is your own name," she said: "Ethan Gano. It will belong to you some day." "Oh!" said Ethan, feeling his prospects to be princely. "Now you may come and walk about a little," she said, rising. "But fold your napkin and put it in your ring." He noticed the ring was marked "E. G.," and laid it down with a sense of ownership. It wasn't like visiting in a strange place when you found your own name on the things at supper. Valeria brought her mother a shawl, and disappeared. Ethan put his hand in Mrs. Gano's, and with great care moderating his child's pace to one sedate and slow, he passed out on to the veranda at the back with his grandmother on that first tour of inspection. There were heavy wooden settees on the veranda against the wall. "Oh, I shall sit here when I do my lessons," said Ethan, coming out of his shyness. "No; you must bring out a chair," said his grandmother; "these benches are so black." "What makes them black?" "The soot. We burn bituminous coal here. You'll have to wash your hands oftener than you do in Boston." "Doesn't anybody ever sit on these benches?" "Never. Why do you do lessons in holiday time?" "Grandfather expects me to." "Humph!" said Mrs. Gano. They had come down off the veranda towards the terraces that sloped on this side down below the level of the street at the bottom of the property, which occupied an angle between Washington Street and Mioto Avenue. They went down the first flight of stone steps, but stopped at the top of the second. "We won't go down there," said Mrs. Gano. "It is a perfect wilderness." "Really?" said Ethan, making great eyes of wonder. "What's down there?"