OUR FRIEND TOM, in his own simple musings, often compared his more fortunate lot, in the bondage into which he was cast, with that of Joseph in Egypt; and, in fact, as time went on, and he developed more and more under the eye of his master, the strength of the parallel increased.

  St. Clare was indolent and careless of money. Tom saw, with an uneasiness he could scarcely repress, the wasteful expenditure of the establishment; and in the quiet, indirect way in which his class often acquire would sometimes make his own suggestions. St. Clare at first employed him occasionally; till gradually all the marketing and providing for the family were intrusted to him.

  But all this time who shall detail the tribulations manifold of our friend, Miss Ophelia, who had begun the labors of a southern housekeeper?

  The first morning of her regency, she was up at four o'clock, prepared for a vigorous onslaught on the cupboards and closets of the establishment. Old Dinah, the head cook, and principal of all rule and authority in the kitchen department, was filled with wrath at what she considered an invasion of privilege.

  Dinah, who was studious of ease in all her arrangements, was seated on the kitchen floor, smoking a short, stumpy pipe, to which she was much addicted, when Miss Ophelia entered the kitchen. Dinah did not rise, but smoked on in sublime tranquillity. Miss Ophelia commenced opening a set of drawers.

  "What is this drawer for, Dinah?" said she.

  "It's handy for most anything, missis," said Dinah. Miss Ophelia pulled out first a fine damask tablecloth, stained with blood, having evidently been used to wrap some raw meat.

  "What's this, Dinah? You don't wrap up meat in your mistress' best tablecloths?"

  "O Lor, missis, no; the towels was all a missin'—so I jest did it. I laid out to wash that ar; that's why I put it thar."

  "Shiftless!" said Miss Ophelia to herself, proceeding to tumble over the drawer, where she found a nutmeg grater and two or three nutmegs, a Methodist hymn book, a couple of soiled Madras handkerchiefs, some yarn and knitting work, a paper of tobacco and a pipe, a few crackers, one or two

  "Where do you keep your nutmegs, Dinah?" asked Miss Ophelia, with the air of one who prayed for patience.

  "Most anywhar, missis; thar's some in that cracked teapot up there, and thar's some over in that ar cupboard."

  "Here are some in the grater," said Miss Ophelia, holding them up.

  "Laws, yes, I put 'em dar this mornin'—I jest likes to keep my things handy," said Dinah. "You, Jake! what are you stopping for? You'll cotch it! Be still, thar!" she added, with a dive of her stick at the criminal.

  "What's this?" said Miss Ophelia, holding up the saucers of pomade.

  "Laws, it's my har grease—I put it thar—to have it handy."

  "Do you use your mistress' best saucers for hair grease?"

  "Law! it was cause I was driv, and in sich a hurry—I was gwine to change it this very day."

  "Here are two damask table napkins."

  "Them napkins I put thar to get 'em washed out, some day."

  "Don't you have some place here on purpose for things that are to be washed?"

  "Well, Mas'r St. Clare got dat ar chest, he said, for dat; but I likes to mix up biscuit and hev my things on it some days, and then it ain't handy a liftin' up the lid."

  "Why don't you mix your biscuit on the pastry table, there?"

  "Law, missis, it gets sot so full of dishes and one thing and another, der ain't do room, noways."

  "But you should wash your dishes and put them away."

  "Wash my dishes!" said Dinah, in a high key, as her wrath began to rise over her habitual respect of manner. "When'd mas'r eber get his dinner, if I was to spend all my time a washin' and a puttin' up dishes?"

  "Well, what are these onions doing here?"

  "I was a savin' dem for dis very stew I am makin' now. I forgot dey was in dat ar old flannel."

  Miss Ophelia lifted out the sifting papers of sweet herbs.

  "I wish missis wouldn't touch dem ar. I likes to keep my things whar I knows whar to go to 'em," said Dinah, rather decidedly.

  "But you don't want these holes in the papers."

  "Them's handy for siftin' on't out," replied Dinah.

  "But you see it spills all over the drawer."

  "Laws, yes! if missis only will go up stars till my clarin' up time comes, I'll

  have everything right; but I can't do nothin' when ladies is round a henderin' me like dis."

  "I am going through the kitchen, and I am going to put everything in order once, Dinah, and then I shall expect you to keep it so."

  Dinah stalked indignantly about, while Miss Ophelia piled and sorted dishes, emptied dozens of scattering bowls of sugar into one receptacle sorted napkins, tablecloths and towels with a speed that perfectly amazed Dinah.

  "Lor, now! if dat ar de way dem northern ladies do, dey ain't ladies, no-how," she said to some of her satellites, when at a safe distance.

  Miss Ophelia in a few days, thoroughly reformed every department of the house; but her labors in all departments that depended upon the co-operation of the servants, were like those of Hercules.

  In his room over the stable, our humble friend Tom sat one day, with his slate before him, intent on something that seemed to cost him a great deal of anxious thought. The fact was that Tom's home yearnings had become so strong, that he had begged a sheet of writing paper of Eva, and, mustering up all his stock of literary attainment acquired by Master George's instructions, he conceived the bold idea of writing a letter; and he was busy now, on his slate, getting out his first draft. Tom was in trouble, for the forms of some of the letters he had entirely forgotten. While he was working away very hard, Eva alighted, like a bird, on the round of his chair behind him, and peeped over his shoulder.

  "O, Uncle Tom! what funny things you are making there!"

  "I'm trying to write to my poor old woman, Miss Eva, and my little chil'en," said Tom, "but somehow, I'm feared I shan't make out."

  "I wish I could help you, Tom! I've learned to write a little. Last year I could make all the letters, but I'm afraid I've forgotten."

  So Eva put her golden head close to his, and with a deal of consulting and advising over every word, the composition began, as they both felt very sanguine, to look quite like writing.

  "How pleased your wife'll be, and the poor little children!" said Eva. "O, it's a shame you ever had to go away from them! I mean to ask papa to let you go back some time."

  "Missis said she would send for me as soon as she could get the money," said Tom. "I'm 'spectin' she will. Young Mas'r George, he said he'd come for me, and he gave me dis yer dollar as a sign;" and Tom drew from under his clothes the precious dollar.

  "O, he'll certainly come, then," said Eva. "I'm so glad!"

  "And I wanted to send a letter, you know, to let 'em know whar I was, and tell poor Chloe that I was well off—cause she felt so drefful, poor soul."

  "I say, Tom," said St. Clare's voice, coming in the door at this moment.

  Tom and Eva both started.

  "What's here?" said St. Clare, coming up and looking at the slate.

  "O, it's Tom's letter. I'm helping him write it," said Eva; "isn't it nice, papa?"

  "I would not want to discourage either of you, but I rather think, Tom that you'd better get me to write your letter for you. I'll do it when we come home from our ride."

  "It is very important that he should write," said Eva, "because his mistress is going to send down money to redeem him, you know, papa; he told me they told him so."

  Tom's letter was written for him in due form that evening, and safely lodged in the postoffice.

  Miss Ophelia still persevered in her labors in the housekeeping line. It was universally agreed, among all the household, from Dinah down to the youngest urchin, that Miss Ophelia was decidedly "curis,"—a term by which a southern servant implies that his or her betters don't exactly suit them.

  The higher circle of servants agreed that she was no lady: ladies never kept working about as she did; that she had no air at all; and they were surprised that she should be any relation of the St. Clares. Even Marie declared that it was absolutely fatiguing to see Cousin Ophelia always so busy. And, in fact, Miss Ophelia's industry was so incessant as to lay some foundation for the complaint. She sewed and stitched away, from daylight till dark, with the energy of one who is pressed on by some immediate urgency; and then, when the light faded, and the work was folded away, with one turn out came the ever-ready knitting work, and there she was again, going on as brisk as ever. It really was a labor to see her so busy.