Three o’clock was, in those days, the dinner-hour of the Virginia gentry; but my grandfather and Charley, being but two in family, and not caring to be bothered with three meals a day, had gotten into the habit of dining at five; and so, shortly before that hour, on this Christmas day, all the company, having made their toilets, had assembled in the drawing-room. But, as far back as I can remember, I don’t think that Aunt Polly had ever let us have our Christmas dinner before six. Aunt Polly could never explain this fact to our satisfaction. “Ready,” she once made reply to my boyish impatience, “no, dat tain’t, How you gwine ’spect de fire to cook all dese things quick like a few things? Jess look at dat pot! I set it d’yar to bile and d’yar it sets a-simperin’ and a-simperin’ like people never did want to eat nothin’.” “In course,” broke in old Dick, with stately profundity, “a rolling stone never gathers no moss.” “Git out o’ my way, Dick, and lemme lift de led off dat d’yar skillet. Moss! Moss! Who talkin’ ’bout moss, I’d like to know? And all de white folks a-waitin’ for dinner!” And she mopped her face with her sleeve. “I meant to rubserve,” rejoined Dick, with offended dignity, “dat a watched pot never biles.” On the present occasion Mrs. Carter gave the company an intimation that they had an hour on their hands. “Why not adjourn to the hall,” suggested Mr. Whacker, “and while away the time with some music?” The company rose with enthusiasm. “Oh, how nice!” And all the girls clapped their hands. “Mr. Frobisher,” said Jones, dryly, “if your finger be sufficiently healed, suppose you lead off. As for me—I—have a sore throat.” “Ah, that poor finger!” cried Alice, “how remiss in us girls not to have inquired after its health! How is the dear little thing?” “I beg your pardon?” inquired Charley, with an innocent look; but his hands had somehow found their way behind his back. “How is your cut finger?” “My cut finger?” “Yes, y-o-u-r c-u-t f-i-n-g-e-r!” “M-y c-u-t f-i-n-g-e-r?” And he mimicked her imperious little gestures; at the same time looking from face to face with a sort of dazed air. “Isn’t this a sort of conundrum?” “No; show me your hand.” “There,” said he, holding out his right hand,—“there is my hand,—you may h-h-h-h-ave it if you want it.” And immediately, as though he had said more than he had intended, blushed to the roots of his hair. “Nonsense!” said she, coloring slightly. “Why do you tantalize people so? The other!” “The other? There they are, both of them.” “But which is the finger that you cut?” “Who said I c-c-c-ut my finger?”