Vi’let was early astir this morning. She went down stairs, her cap on one ear, very much out of humor at having the house to put to rights again, “arter working like a dog all yesterday from sunrise till midnight.” Routing up Scip and Peter, and setting Flora to put the breakfast-room in order, she then placed the coffee and chocolate on the fire, and the cakes into the Dutch-oven to bake—this, the reader will recollect, was before the era of cooking-stoves and ranges—after which she called out to Flora to know if Dinah had brought back the frying-pan.
“No, Aunt Vi’let,” returned Flora, in a deprecating tone; “but you mustn’t blame me, for I told her you’d want it this morning to fry the flap-jacks.”
“That’s always the way with that old witch, Nanny; if she gets any thing out of anybody, they’ve good luck to get it again—Pete’, what are you gaping at me for? Why don’t you clean master’s shoes, you lazy nigger? What’s Scip’ poking about—why don’t he bring in the stuff to make the fire burn? Breakfast wont be ready till nine o’clock, and madam will be down scolding so that the house wont hold her—sich a life as I lead!”
Here she went across the yard to the hedge dividing her master’s premises from those of Jemmy Boynton, thrust her head through the lilacs yet in full bloom—the white linen border of her cap turned back, setting off to great advantage her ebony complexion—and called out,
“Dinah!”—then louder and sharper, “Dinah!”—no Dinah appeared.
“What the old gallows ails the gal, that I must split my throat a screeching arter her!” then raising her voice to the utmost pitch—“Di-i-ina-ah!”
Here Dinah’s head appeared out of a little square window in the out-house.
“What’s wanting, Aunt Vi’let?”
“What’s wanting?—the frying-pan’s wanting—what d’ye think?”
“Laud ’a’massy, Aunt Vi’let, I forgot all about it; we had sich a rumpus here yesterday.”