Before the open window was placed the table, arranged for the morning
meal. How pure the cloth looked, how clear the glass; and then the
bouquet of fragrant roses which adorned the center, how homelike,
fresh, and beautiful it seemed! An air of comfort--American, southern
comfort--pervaded the whole. The breakfast was brought in by a
middle-aged negress, whose tidy appearance, and honest, happy, smiling
face presented the best refutation of the gross slanders of our
northern brethren. I would that her daguerreotype, as she stood
arranging the dishes, could be contrasted with those of the miserable,
half-starved seamstresses of Boston and New York, who toil from dawn
till dark, with aching head and throbbing heart, over some weary
article, for which they receive the mighty recompense of a shilling.

When she had arranged every dish with great exactness, a small bell
was rung; and, waiter in hand, she stood ready to attend the family.

A bright, young face appeared at the open window.

"I hope, Aunt Fanny, you have a nice breakfast. You have no idea what
an appetite my walk has given me."

"Now, Miss Mary, ain't my cooking always nice?"

"Indeed, it is. Your coffee would not disgrace a pasha's table; and
your rolls are

'The whitest, the lightest, that ever were seen.'"

She disappeared from the window, and entered the room just as Mr.
Hamilton came in, followed by Florence.