“Well, Dick,” said Mr. Whacker, “I suppose we have seen our breakfast?” Dick gave his company-bow, glancing, as the gentlemen rose from the table, with the imposing look of a generalissimo, at a half-grown boy who acted as his aide-de-camp whenever there was even one guest at Elmington. It was only, in fact, when our small family was alone that this worthy served as what would be called, in the language of our day, a “practical” waiter (there existing, it would seem, at the period of this writing, to judge from the frequency of that adjective upon sign-boards, hordes of theoretical blacksmiths, cobblers, and barbers, against whom the public are thus tacitly warned). For, whenever we had company, Dick would perform the duties rather of a commander than of a private,—_magis imperatoris quam militis_,—summoning to his assistance one or more lads who were too young for steady farm work,—or were so considered, at least, during those times of slavery. Zip,—for under this name went, in defiance of all the philology and all the Grimm’s Laws in the world, the boy in question,—(he had been christened Moses,)—Zip sprang nimbly forward under that austere glance of authority and began to clear the table,—half trembling under the severe eye of a chief for whom there was one way of gathering up knives, one method of piling plate upon plate, one of removing napkins,—one and only one. “Dick,” said my grandfather, as soon as pipes were lit, “there is a fire in the library?” “Yes, sir; I made one de fust thing dis morning.” “Ah, well, Charley, suppose you take Mr. Smith over then; you will be more comfortable there than here. I shall follow you in half an hour or so.” “This way,” said Charley. And the two young men, passing through the house and descending a few steps, found themselves upon a pavement of powdered shells, which led to a frame building, painted white, and one story in height, which stood about fifty yards westward of the mansion. This they entered by the left door of two that opened upon the yard, and found themselves in my grandfather’s library and sitting-room. It was fitted up with shelves, built into the walls, upon which was to be found a miscellaneous library of about two thousand volumes; the furniture consisting of a very wide and solid square table, a couple of lounges, and a number of very comfortable chairs of various patterns. Charley took up his position with his back to the fire, while the Don sauntered round the room, running his eye along the shelves, and occasionally taking down and examining a volume, and the two chatted quietly for some time. “The old gentleman is coming over. I hear his step. He has something to show you.” “Ah?” said the Don, looking around the room. “It is not in this room; it is in the next,—or, rather, it is that room itself,” added Charley, pointing to a door. “That room is the apple of his eye. I always reserve for him the pleasure of exhibiting it to his friends.”