“What is your name, boy?” inquired Josephine.
“Peter, missy. My name’s Peter.”
“Well, then, Peter, don’t be stupid. Or are you deaf, maybe?” she asked.
“Land, no, missy. I’se got my hearin’ fust class,” he replied, somewhat indignantly.
“I have come to see my Uncle Joe. I wish to see him now. Please tell him,” she commanded.
The negro scratched his gray wool and reflected. He had been born and raised in the service of the family where he still “officiated,” and knew its history thoroughly. His present master was the only son of an only son, and there had never been a daughter. No, nor wife, at least to this household. There were cousins in plenty, with whom Mr. Joseph Smith was not on good terms. There were property interests dividing them, and Mr. Joseph kept his vast wealth for his own use alone. Some thought he should have shared it with others, but he did not so think and lived his quiet life, with a trio of colored men-servants. His house was one of the best appointed on the wide avenue, but, also, one of the quietest. It was the first time that old Peter had ever heard a child’s voice in that great room, and its clear tones seemed to confuse him.
“I want to see my Uncle Joe. I want to see him right away. Go, boy, and call him,” Josephine explained.
This was command, and Peter was used to obey, so he replied:
“All right, little missy, I’ll go see. Has you got your card? Who shall I say ’tis?”
Josephine reflected. Once mamma had had some dear little visiting cards engraved with her small daughter’s name, and the child remembered with regret that if they had been packed with her “things” at all, it must have been in the trunk, which the expressman said would arrive by and by from the railway station. She could merely say: