“I do believe I hear a horse snort! D’yar ’tis again! Somebody comin’ through de gate. ’Fore de Lord, I believe ’tis Marse Charley! Lemme look good! Sure enough, d’yar he is! Sarvant, Marse Charles! I knowed you was a-comin’ dis very night, and I hope I may die ef he ain’t on old Hop-and-go-fetch-it! Lord a’ massy! Lord a’ massy! Well, it’s an ill wind what don’t blow de crows out o’ some gent’mun’s cornfield. Lord a’ massy, Marse Charley, what _is_ you a-doin’ up d’yar on dat poor old critter, and de horses in de stable jess a-spilin’ to have somebody fling he leg over ’em?” “Well, my boy, is that you?” “Yes, here I am again, and glad to be back at home. How are you, Uncle Tom?” “The same old seven-and-sixpence,—always well; and how are you?” “Sound in wind and limb, and savagely hungry.” “Well, get down, and we’ll soon cure that ailment.” “I am very sorry,” said Charley, as they entered the dining-room, “that I had to stay away so long, but it seemed right that I should help nurse him. Ah, what a noble fire!” “Well, you are at home again, at any rate. Polly will soon have some supper for you, and you know what is in the sideboard.” Old Dick, meanwhile, was carrying out his share in the programme. “Well, I s’pose I’ll have to feed you,” said he to the flea-bitten, surveying him from head to hock. No true negro feels any doubt whatever as to his words being perfectly intelligible to horse, mule, cow, or dog. “Ef ever I see a poor-folks’ horse, you is one. Git up! git up! don’t you hear me? You needn’t be a-standin’ here a-thinkin’ Dick gwine to ride you to de stable. Aha! you hear dat word stable, did you? Bound for you! You been d’yar befo’, and you know d’yar’s corn in dat ’ar stable; and a heap mo’, besides you, know dat d’yar is pervisions a-layin’ around here, and dey ain’t horses neither, nor yet mules. Git up, I tell you! Ain’t you got no more sense, old as you is, than to be a-snatchin’ at dry grass like dat? But Lor’, Dick don’t blame you! No, honey, Dick ain’t got a word agin you. Who is you, any way, I ax you dat? Is you blood? Is you quality? Dat’s what’s de matter, ef you believe me. You needn’t be a-shakin’ your head; you can’t tell Dick nothin’. Anybody can see _you_ ain’t kin to nobody. ’M’h’m! yes, chile! you needn’t say a word, Dick knows dat kind far as he can see ’em, be dey man _or_ beast. Howsomever, Dick don’t mount no sich. Nigger property is too unsartin for dat. Nebberdeless, Marse Charles, bein’ as how he belongs to his self, he mought. Nebberdeless, you fotch him home, and pretty is as pretty does, dat’s de way old Dick talks it. Polly! Polly!” shouted he to his wife, the cook, as he passed the kitchen door; “Polly! git up, gal! Marse Charles done come and want he supper. _I would say_,” continued he, not content with the colloquial phrases in which he had announced his young master’s arrival and the state of his appetite,—“I would say, Polly,”—and enveloped in darkness as he was, and invisible