Opening the reply hastily (to read the postscript first), the violets had dropped out, covering the poor boy with blissful confusion. I don’t hate you a bit, said the postscript.
Some metaphysical notion must have come into Charley’s head, as he read those words don’t hate. Did he, perhaps, think, that somewhere between the negative don’t and the positive hate there must lurk, though invisible, the longed-for word love? At any rate, selecting a spot midway, he kissed it with accuracy and fervor.
“Umgh—umgh!” grunted Uncle Dick, who had happened to step up on the threshold just at this critical and romantic juncture.
“I did nothing of the kind!” said Charley.
“What?” asked the Don, looking up from his letter.
“Nothing,” said Charley.
“Uncle Dick!” called Charley, at the door whence the venerable butler had vanished, “come here! I say, if ever you tell Uncle Tom—”
“Tell him what, Marse Charley?”
“You old villain! There,—go to the sideboard and help yourself!”
“Much obleeged, mahrster; my mouf is a leetle tetched wid de drought, dat’s a fac’. And here’s many happy returns to you, likewise all enquirin’ friends; and here’s hopin’ dat de peach may tase as sweet in you mouf as it look to you a-hangin’ on de tree!” And he vanished, backing out of the room, smiling and bowing—