Uncle Tom's Cabin & The Key to Uncle Tom's Cabin. Гарриет Бичер-Стоу

of authority. "Would you intrude on Master's domestic relations, in the first hour of his return?"

      All looked abashed at this elegant speech, delivered with quite an air, and stood huddled together at a respectful distance, except two stout porters, who came up and began conveying away the baggage.

      Owing to Mr. Adolph's systematic arrangements, when St. Clare turned round from paying the hackman, there was nobody in view but Mr. Adolph himself, conspicuous in satin vest, gold guard-chain, and white pants, and bowing with inexpressible grace and suavity.

      "Ah, Adolph, is it you?" said his master, offering his hand to him; "how are you, boy?" while Adolph poured forth, with great fluency, an extemporary speech, which he had been preparing, with great care, for a fortnight before.

      "Well, well," said St. Clare, passing on, with his usual air of negligent drollery, "that's very well got up, Adolph. See that the baggage is well bestowed. I'll come to the people in a minute;" and, so saying, he led Miss Ophelia to a large parlor that opened on the verandah.

      While this had been passing, Eva had flown like a bird, through the porch and parlor, to a little boudoir opening likewise on the verandah.

      A tall, dark-eyed, sallow woman, half rose from a couch on which she was reclining.

      "Mamma!" said Eva, in a sort of a rapture, throwing herself on her neck, and embracing her over and over again.

      "That'll do,—take care, child,—don't, you make my head ache," said the mother, after she had languidly kissed her.

      St. Clare came in, embraced his wife in true, orthodox, husbandly fashion, and then presented to her his cousin. Marie lifted her large eyes on her cousin with an air of some curiosity, and received her with languid politeness. A crowd of servants now pressed to the entry door, and among them a middle-aged mulatto woman, of very respectable appearance, stood foremost, in a tremor of expectation and joy, at the door.

      "O, there's Mammy!" said Eva, as she flew across the room; and, throwing herself into her arms, she kissed her repeatedly.

      This woman did not tell her that she made her head ache, but, on the contrary, she hugged her, and laughed, and cried, till her sanity was a thing to be doubted of; and when released from her, Eva flew from one to another, shaking hands and kissing, in a way that Miss Ophelia afterwards declared fairly turned her stomach.

      "Well!" said Miss Ophelia, "you southern children can do something that I couldn't."

      "What, now, pray?" said St. Clare.

      "Well, I want to be kind to everybody, and I wouldn't have anything hurt; but as to kissing—"

      "Niggers," said St. Clare, "that you're not up to,—hey?"

      "Yes, that's it. How can she?"

      St. Clare laughed, as he went into the passage. "Halloa, here, what's to pay out here? Here, you all—Mammy, Jimmy, Polly, Sukey—glad to see Mas'r?" he said, as he went shaking hands from one to another. "Look out for the babies!" he added, as he stumbled over a sooty little urchin, who was crawling upon all fours. "If I step upon anybody, let 'em mention it."

      There was an abundance of laughing and blessing Mas'r, as St. Clare distributed small pieces of change among them.

      "Come, now, take yourselves off, like good boys and girls," he said; and the whole assemblage, dark and light, disappeared through a door into a large verandah, followed by Eva, who carried a large satchel, which she had been filling with apples, nuts, candy, ribbons, laces, and toys of every description, during her whole homeward journey.

      As St. Clare turned to go back his eye fell upon Tom, who was standing uneasily, shifting from one foot to the other, while Adolph stood negligently leaning against the banisters, examining Tom through an opera-glass, with an air that would have done credit to any dandy living.

      "Puh! you puppy," said his master, striking down the opera glass; "is that the way you treat your company? Seems to me, Dolph," he added, laying his finger on the elegant figured satin vest that Adolph was sporting, "seems to me that's my vest."

      "O! Master, this vest all stained with wine; of course, a gentleman in Master's standing never wears a vest like this. I understood I was to take it. It does for a poor nigger-fellow, like me."

      And Adolph tossed his head, and passed his fingers through his scented hair, with a grace.

      "So, that's it, is it?" said St. Clare, carelessly. "Well, here, I'm going to show this Tom to his mistress, and then you take him to the kitchen; and mind you don't put on any of your airs to him. He's worth two such puppies as you."

      "Master always will have his joke," said Adolph, laughing. "I'm delighted to see Master in such spirits."

      "Here, Tom," said St. Clare, beckoning.

      Tom entered the room. He looked wistfully on the velvet carpets, and the before unimagined splendors of mirrors, pictures, statues, and curtains, and, like the Queen of Sheba before Solomon, there was no more spirit in him. He looked afraid even to set his feet down.

      "See here, Marie," said St. Clare to his wife, "I've bought you a coachman, at last, to order. I tell you, he's a regular hearse for blackness and sobriety, and will drive you like a funeral, if you want. Open your eyes, now, and look at him. Now, don't say I never think about you when I'm gone."

      Marie opened her eyes, and fixed them on Tom, without rising.

      "I know he'll get drunk," she said.

      "No, he's warranted a pious and sober article."

      "Well, I hope he may turn out well," said the lady; "it's more than I expect, though."

      "Dolph," said St. Clare, "show Tom down stairs; and, mind yourself," he added; "remember what I told you."

      Adolph tripped gracefully forward, and Tom, with lumbering tread, went after.

      "He's a perfect behemoth!" said Marie.

      "Come, now, Marie," said St. Clare, seating himself on a stool beside her sofa, "be gracious, and say something pretty to a fellow."

      "You've been gone a fortnight beyond the time," said the lady, pouting.

      "Well, you know I wrote you the reason."

      "Such a short, cold letter!" said the lady.

      "Dear me! the mail was just going, and it had to be that or nothing."

      "That's just the way, always," said the lady; "always something to make your journeys long, and letters short."

      "See here, now," he added, drawing an elegant velvet case out of his pocket, and opening it, "here's a present I got for you in New York."

      It was a daguerreotype, clear and soft as an engraving, representing Eva and her father sitting hand in hand.

      Marie looked at it with a dissatisfied air.

      "What made you sit in such an awkward position?" she said.

      "Well, the position may be a matter of opinion; but what do you think of the likeness?"

      "If you don't think anything of my opinion in one case, I suppose you wouldn't in another," said the lady, shutting the daguerreotype.

      "Hang the woman!" said St. Clare, mentally; but aloud he added, "Come, now, Marie, what do you think of the likeness? Don't be nonsensical, now."

      "It's very inconsiderate of you, St. Clare," said the lady, "to insist on my talking and looking at things. You know I've been lying all day with the sick-headache; and there's been such a tumult made ever since you came, I'm half dead."

      "You're subject to the sick-headache, ma'am!" said Miss Ophelia, suddenly rising from the depths of the large arm-chair, where she had sat quietly, taking an inventory of the furniture, and calculating its expense.

      "Yes, I'm a perfect martyr to it," said the lady.

      "Juniper-berry tea is good for sick-headache," said Miss Ophelia; "at least, Auguste, Deacon Abraham Perry's wife,