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“So, that’s it, is it?” said St. Clare, carelessly. “Well here, I’m going to show this Tom to his mistress, and then you take him to the kitchen; and mind you don’t put on any of your airs to him. He’s worth two such puppies as you.” “Master always will have his joke,” said Adolph, laughing. “I’m delighted to see Master in such spirits.” “Here, Tom,” said St. Clare, beckoning. Tom entered the room. He looked wistfully on the velvet carpets, and the be- fore unimagined splendors of mirrors, pictures, statues, and curtains, and, like the Queen of Sheba before Solomon, there was no more spirit in him. He looked afraid even to set his feet down. “See here, Marie,” said St. Clare to his wife, “I’ve bought you a coachman, at last, to order. I tell you, he’s a regular hearse for blackness and sobriety, and will drive you like a funeral, if you want. Open your eyes, now, and look at him. Now, don’t say I never think about you when I’m gone.” Marie opened her eyes, and fixed them on Tom, without rising. “I know he’ll get drunk,” she said. “No, he’s warranted a pious and sober article.” “Well, I hope he may turn out well,” said the lady; “it’s more than I expect, though.” |