“We will pint’ly, Marse Charles, we will pint’ly.” And even after the old man had closed the door, you might have heard muttered fragments of his amiable intentions, as he trudged back to the kitchen. “Well,” began my grandfather, rising from the table to fill his pipe, “you made a long stay of it in Richmond. How did you leave the young man?” “Ah, he is nearly well again,” said Charley, deftly removing a side-bone from the fowl before him. “By Jove, I did not know how hungry I was. That early dinner on the boat seems to me now like a far-away dream of a thing that never was. I wonder whether this turkey really _is_ the best that old Sucky ever raised? How good that tobacco smells!” Charley was happy. The bright fire and good cheer, after his long, cold, and tiresome ride, the intense consciousness of being at home once more, but, above all, the look of beaming satisfaction on the face of the venerable but still vigorous old man, who sat smiling upon him and enjoying his appetite and high spirits, filled him with ineffable content. “Let me settle with this august bird, Uncle Tom, and then I shall be ready to talk to you about Mr. Smith,—Don Miff, as the girls call him.” “Don Miff?—what girls?” “The—ah, we gave him that nickname. I’ll explain when I get even with this noble fowl and light my pipe.” “Did you,” asked my grandfather, advancing cautiously as a skirmisher, “meet any nice people in Richmond?” “Oh, yes, very nice people up there,—too many of them; made me talk myself nearly to death,—but very nice people, of course, very. Look at that chap,” added he, holding up on the end of his fork a huge oyster. “You spoke of girls,—did you meet any?” And a pang of jealousy shot through the old man’s heart, as he recalled Dick’s aphorism on the universal liability of young folks to a certain weakness. “Oh, lots!—I’ll have to cut this fellow in two, I believe.” “Who were they?” asked the old man, trying to smile. “Who? the girls?” “Yes; you did not mention any in your letters.” “Of course not. When did you ever know me to write about girls? As I said, I met lots of them at the various houses at which I visited. It seems to me that there are girls everywhere.” “Thank God for it, too.” “Well,—yes,—as it were; but you can’t expect a fellow to remember all their names. Oh, there was Lucy Poythress, of course.” “Yes, I knew she was in Richmond.” “And then—and then there was a schoolmate of hers,—Miss Mary Rolfe. You know her father, Mr. James Rolfe. Brilliant girl, they say,—talks beautifully—very accomplished, you know, and all that sort of thing.” “Yes, I have heard she is a really charming girl. What do you say to our having her as one of our Christmas party?” The old man removed his pipe from his mouth. “What do you say, Charley?” And he glanced at the young man’s face with a look that was too eager to be shrewd. “A capital idea!” exclaimed Charley, spearing another oyster with emphasis.