"John—John! What a mad proceeding! You will take your death!" cried his mother from the carriage window.
The gentleman so addressed climbed carefully down the step-ladder, while Emmie tumbled out of the carriage and ran to meet him.
"What do you think, father?" she said, confidingly. "Cousin Ethan's got a valet."
"A what?"
"A valet," whispered Emmie.
"Valet! What does he want a valet for?"
In vain Emmie squeezed his arm. He spoke in a loud, astonished tone.
"Ah ha! I felt it wouldn't do to produce Drouet in New Plymouth," said Ethan, who was conducting Mrs. Gano to the porch.
"Well," answered his uncle, dryly, "if you were too old or too ill to wait on yourself, I should understand it."
"Do come in out of the draughts, John, and don't stand talking nonsense. Your father had his body-servant before he was either old or ill, and so did my father."