Every one looked up on Charley’s entrance. As for that young man, he looked neither to the right nor to the left. “Mr. Smith will be down presently,” said he to Mrs. Carter. As he strode around the room to take his chair, his firm-set lips wore a rather dogged expression, as though he would warn us all that, so far as he was concerned, the conversation was ended; and, hastily taking his seat, he began a vigorous attack on his soup, as if to overtake the rest of the company. Somehow every one was silent, and the isolated and rather rapid click of Charley’s spoon was distinctly audible. Alice smiled, and conversation beginning to spring up around the table, “I fear your soup is cold,” she began. “The soup was cold?” asked he, looking up. “I am very sorry.” “I didn’t say that,” replied she, quickly. “I remarked that I was afraid yours was cold.” “Mine?” asked he, looking puzzled. “Why?” “You were detained so long up-stairs.” “Oh!” said he, renewing the assault upon the soup. “You are right,” he added; “it is ratherish cool.” Alice was foiled. “I believe Mrs. Poythress called you.” Charley leaned forward. “Nothing serious, I hope?” asked Mrs. Poythress. All eyes were fixed on Charley, every ear intent to hear his answer to this question, which Mrs. Poythress alone had ventured to ask. For a moment this master of fence and parry stood confounded; but only for a moment. “Nothing to speak of,” replied he, with careless simplicity, and, leaning back in his chair, he glanced at Uncle Dick. Richard, briskly, though with averted face, came to remove the soup-plate, and then hurried out of the room to have a quiet chuckle. “Tain’t no use, Polly; dey jess as well let Marse Charles alone. He is a keener, he is, umgh—umgh! Dey ain’t gwine to git nothin’ out o’ him, ef you b’lieve Dick, dey ain’t, mun.” And the old worthy’s sides shook with laughter. “Dey has been tetchin’ her up pretty lively dis mornin’, dat’s a fac’, and dey wet Dick’s whistle for him, dey did, ef you b’lieve me, and more’n once, too. Well, ‘Christmas comes but once a year, Den every nigger git his shear.’ “Hurry up, gal! hurry up!” “Don’t come round me, boy, wid your ‘hurry up, hurry up.’ Don’t you see I’se hurryin’ up all I kin hurry up already? I b’lieve you is drunk, anyhow!” “Pretty close to it, thank de Lord. ‘Christmas comes but once a year, Every nigger—’” “I tell you git out o’ dis kitchen, and mind you don’t fall and break dat dish, wid your ‘Christmas comes but once a year.’ Go ’long, boy. Dat ham’s seven years old, and you jess let it fall!” “Hi!” thought Uncle Dick, as he entered the dining-room. “What’s he doin’ at de table?” Richard was surprised.