like water about the roots of a tree, kept him from drying up altogether.
Peter always polished his shoes with too much blacking, perhaps thinking that the more the blacking the greater the proof of love. He wore his clothes about a season and a half—having several suits—and then passed them on to Peter, who, foreseeing the joy of such an inheritance, bought no new ones. In the act of transferring them the colonel made no comment until he came to the hose, from which he seemed unable to part without a final tribute of esteem, as: "These are fine, Peter;" or, "Peter, these are nearly as good as new." Thus Peter, too, was dragged through the whims of fashion. To have seen the colonel walking about his grounds and garden followed by Peter, just a year and a half behind in dress and a yard and a half behind in space, one might well have taken the rear figure for the colonel's double, slightly the worse for wear, somewhat shrunken, and cast into a heavy shadow.
Time hung so heavily on his hands at night that with a happy inspiration he added a dress suit to his ward robe, and accepted the first invitation to an evening party.
He grew excited as the hour approached, and dressed in a great fidget for fear he should be too late.
"How do I look, Peter?" he inquired at length, surprised at his own appearance.
"Splendid, Marse Rom," replied Peter, bringing in the shoes with more blacking on them than ever before.
"I think," said the colonel, apologetically—"I think I'd look better if I'd put a little powder on. I don't know what makes me so red in the face."
But his heart began to sink before he reached his
