Now, as he sat on the bed-steps, it seemed to him that he had come home for
the first time in his life. All this was his own by right,--the queer old
house, his mother's room, and beyond the sloping windows, the meadows with
their annual yield of grain. He felt the pride of it swelling within him;
he waited breathlessly for the daybreak when he might go out and lord it
over the fields and the cattle and the servants that were his also. And at
last--his head big with his first day's vanity--he climbed between the
dimity curtains and fell asleep.
When he awaked next morning, the sun was shining through the small square
panes, and outside were the waving elm boughs and a clear sky. He was
aroused by a knock on his door, and, as he jumped out of bed, Big Abel, the
Major's driver and confidential servant, came in with the warm water. He
was a strong, finely-formed negro, black as the ace of spades (so the Major
put it), and of a singularly open countenance.
"Hi! ain't you up yit, young Marster?" he exclaimed. "Sis Rhody, she sez
she done save you de bes' puffovers you ever tase, en ef'n you don' come
'long down, dey'll fall right flat."
"Who is Sis Rhody?" inquired the boy, as he splashed the water on his face.
"Who she? Why, she de cook."
"All right, tell her I'm coming," and he dressed hurriedly and ran down
into the hall where he found Champe Lightfoot, the Major's great-nephew,
who lived at Chericoke.
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