I don’t think the relations between Virginia master and Virginia slave ever appeared in a gentler or more attractive aspect than on Christmas mornings. The way the older and more privileged domestics had of bursting into your room at the most unearthly hour, shouting “Christmas gift! Christmas gift!” beaming with smiles and brimful of good nature, was enough to warm the heart of a Cimon. “Well, Aunt Phœbe,” said one of the drowsy beauties, “you have caught us.” “Gracious, is it daybreak yet?” yawned hazel-eyed Alice. “I am s-o-o-o sleepy!” And turning over in bed with a toss, she closed her eyes and pouted as though she had much to endure. “Daybreak? _Daybreak?_ Why, Lor’, chile, ain’t Polly done put on her bread to bake? Git up, git up, you lazy things! Don’t you know all de beaux is up and dressed, and a-settin’ round, ’most a-dyin’ for to see you?” “Poor things, are they?” mumbled Alice against her pillow. “To-be-sho, to-be-sho dey is,” reiterated Aunt Phœbe; though, as a veracious historian, I must let the reader know that it was a pious fraud on the old lady’s part, inspired by solicitude for the reputation of the Elmington breakfast; for not one of the sinners had stirred. “I believe,” added Aunt Phœbe, observing that Mary’s eyes were open,—“I believe,” said she, going up to Alice and looking down upon her with an admiring smile, “dat dis is de sleepyheadedest one of ’em all.” Alice gave a little grunt, if the expression be parliamentary. “Makin’ ’ten’ she ’sleep now,” said Aunt Phœbe, casting knowing nods and winks at Mary. “When she is awake, Aunt Phœbe, she is wide enough awake for you, isn’t she?” “Lor’ bless you, honey, I b’lieve you; she cert’n’y do beat all.” And the floor trembled beneath the good old soul’s adipose chuckle. “She is a pretty chile, too, she is mum,” continued the old lady, assuming, with her arms akimbo, a critical attitude. Mary rose on her elbow to observe Alice’s countenance. Her lips began to twitch, slightly, under this double gaze. “And I ain’t de onliest one as thinks so, neither,” added she, tossing back her head with a look of triumphant sagacity. “Who is it? who is it?” And Mary rose and sat up in bed. “Nebber mind, nebber mind!” replied she, with diplomatic reserve. “Nebber mind; Phœbe ain’t been livin’ in this world so long for nothin’. De ole nigger got eyes in her head, and she can see out’n ’em, too; you b’lieve she can, my honeys.” “Oh, do tell me, that’s a good Aunt Phœbe!” “Though she ain’t got no specs on her nose.” And the good soul threw herself back and gave vent to a very audible h’yah, h’yah, h’yah. “Is—it—Uncle—Tom?” droned out Alice, in an almost inarticulate murmur.