"Why, General," Old Mistress cried in surprise.
He looked at her. "Why, what did I say? Said I was glad to see him, didn't I, and I am. You know it, Hanna, as well as I do. Said I was glad to see him, and you don't seem to believe it. Dan, see that a hogshead of egg-nog is served to the negroes."
"Oh, not that much!" Old Miss protested.
"Hanna, I said a hogshead," he persisted, blinking at her, "and I can't forfeit my word. Go out there, Dan, and tell them that they are to have a hogshead."
That night, after a day of feast and an evening of good-natured riot, Bob and I sat in our room, he listening, and I reading aloud "The Count of Monte Cristo." During the day and the evening, amid the gaiety of the negro quarter, my young master had laughed with as loud a haw-haw as the lustiest buck on the plantation, but I had seen that at times his face was sad; had heard a melancholy note sounding under the jig tune of his revelry.
The hour was late, the fire was growing gray. I put the book aside and raked the chunks together. "We have drunk the warm light and now we'll drink the cooling dregs," he said. And looking at him I replied:
"You are a boy but sometimes you talk like an old man."
"And act like a fool," was his quick retort. He got up quickly, overturning his chair, and without stopping to right it, strode slowly up and down the room. He walked for some time, with his eyes cast down, half theatrical, treading the forum, for his reading had a deep influence upon him; and then he halted and turned to me.
"Do you see that chair?"
"Yes, sir."