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“That old–! He is a nuisance! What does he want now? Is his wife worse, or is he after a new one?”

“I d’ n’ kn’, m’m,” said the maid, sheepishly, twisting her body and looking away, to appear unconcerned. “Would n’ tell me. He ain’ after me!

“Well, tell him to go to the kitchen till I send for him. Or–wait: if his wife ‘s gone, he ‘ll be courting the cook if I send him to the kitchen. And I don’t want to lose her just now. Tell him to come to the door.”

“Yes, ‘m.” The maid gave a half-suppressed giggle, which almost became an explosion as she said something to herself and closed the door. It sounded like, “Dressed up might’ly–settin’ up to de cook now, I b’lieve.”

There was a slow, heavy step without, and a knock at the back door; and on a call from his mistress, Jabez entered, bowing low, very pompous and serious. He was a curious mixture of assurance and conciliation, as he stood there, hat in hand. He was tall and black and bald, with white side-whiskers cut very short, and a rim of white wool around his head. He was dressed in an old black coat, and held in his hand an ancient beaver hat around which was a piece of rusty crape.

“Well, Jabez?” said his mistress, after the salutations were over, “How are you getting along!”

“Well, mist’is, not very well, not at all well, ma’am. Had mighty bad luck. ‘Bout my wife,” he added, explanatorily. He pulled down his lips, and looked the picture of solemnity.

I saw from Mrs. Meriwether’s mystified look that she did not know what he considered “bad luck.” She could not tell from his reference whether his wife was better or worse.

“Is she–ah? What–oh–how is Amanda?” she demanded finally, to solve the mystery.

“Mandy! Lord! ‘m, ‘Mandy was two back. She ‘s de one runned away wid Tom Halleck, an’ lef’ me. I don’t know how she is. I never went ahter her. I wuz re-ally glad to git shet o’ her. She was too expansive. Dat ooman want two frocks a year. When dese women begin to dress up so much, a man got to look out. Dee ain’t always dressin’ fer you!”

“Indeed!” But Mrs. Meriwether’s irony was lost on Jabez.

“Yes, ‘m; dat she did! Dis one ‘s name was Sairey.” He folded his hands and waited, the picture of repose and contentment.

“Oh, yes. So; true. I ‘d forgotten that ‘Mandy left you. But I thought the new one was named Susan!” observed Mrs. Meriwether.

“No, ‘m; not de newes‘ one. Susan–I had her las’ Christmas; but she would n’ stay wid me. She was al’ays runnin’ off to town; an’ you know a man don’ want a ooman on wheels. Ef de Lawd had intended a ooman to have wheels, he ‘d ‘a’ gi’n ’em to her, would n’ he?”

“Well, I suppose he would,” assented Mrs. Meriwether. “And this one is Sarah? Well, how is—-?”

“Yes, ‘m; dis one was Sairey.” We just caught the past tense.

“You get them so quickly, you see, you can’t expect one to remember them,” said Mrs. Meriwether, frigidly. She meant to impress Jabez; but Jabez remained serene.

“Yes, ‘m; dat ‘s so,” said he, cheerfully. “I kin hardly remember ’em myself.”

“No, I suppose not.” His mistress grew severe. “Well, how ‘s Sarah?”

“Well, m’m, I could n’ exactly say–Sairey she ‘s done lef me–yes, ‘m.” He looked so cheerful that his mistress said with asperity:

“Left you! She has run off, too! You must have treated her badly?”

“No, ‘m. I did n’. I never had a wife I treated better. I let her had all she could eat; an’ when she was sick—-“

“I heard she was sick. I heard you sent for the doctor.”

“Yes, ‘m; dat I did–dat ‘s what I was gwine to tell you. I had a doctor to see her twice. I had two separate and indifferent physicians: fust Dr. Overall, an’ den Marse Douglas. I could n’ do no mo’ ‘n dat, now, could I?”