Peggy Stewart at School | Page 2

fact he was first dazed, and then overwhelmed by the
sense of his obligations overlooked for so long, and, being possessed of
a lively sense of duty, he strove to correct the oversight.
Had he not been in such deadly earnest his efforts to make reparation
for what he considered his inexcusable short-sightedness and neglect,
would have been funny, for, like most men when confronted by some
problem involving femininity, he was utterly at a loss how to set about
"his job" as he termed it.
As a matter of fact, a kind fate had taken "his job" in hand for him
some time before, and was in a fair way to turn out a pretty good one
too. But Neil Stewart made up his mind to boost Old Lady Fate along a
little, and his attempts at so doing came pretty near upsetting her
equilibrium; she was not inclined to be hustled, and Neil Stewart was
nothing if not a hustler, once he got under way.
And so, alack! by one little move he completely changed Peggy's future
and for a time rendered the present a veritable storm center, as will be
seen.
But we will let events tell their own story.
Old Jerome moved about the sunny breakfast-room; at least it would
have been sunny had not soft-tinted awnings and East-Indian screens,
shut out the sun's glare and suffused the room in a restful coolness and
calm, in marked contrast to the vivid light beyond the windows.

Jerome himself was refreshing to look upon. The old colored man was
quite seventy years of age, but still an erect and dignified major-domo.
From his white, wool-fringed old head, to the toes of his white canvas
shoes, he was immaculate. No linen could have been more faultlessly
laundered than Jerome's; no serviette more neatly folded. All was in
harmony excepting the old man's face; that was troubled. A perplexed
pucker contracted his forehead as he spoke softly to himself.
"'Taint going to do no how! It sure ain't. She ain't got de right bran', no
she ain't, and yo' cyant mate up no common stock wid a tho'oughbred
and git any sort of a span. No siree, yo' cyant. My Lawd, what done
possess Massa Neil fer ter 'vite her down hyer? She cyant 'struct an'
guide our yo'ng mist'ess. Sho! She ain' know de very fust rudimints ob
de qualities' ways an' doin's. Miss Peggy could show her mo' in five
minutes dan she ever is know in five years. She ain't,--she ain't,--well I
ain't jist 'zackly know how I'se gwine speechify it, but she ain't like we
all," and Jerome wagged his head in deprecation and forced his tongue
against his teeth in a sound indicating annoyance and distaste, as he
moved his mistress' chair a trifle.
Just then Mammy Lucy stuck her white-turbaned head in at the door to
ask:
"Whar dat chile at? Ain't she done come in fer her breckfus yit? It's
nine o'clock and Sis Cynthia's a-stewin' an' a steamin' like her own
taters."
"She say she wait fer her aunt, an' her aunt say she cyant breckfus befo'
half-pas' nine, no how," answered Jerome.
"Huh, huh! An' ma chile gotter wait a hull hour pas' her breckfus time
jist kase Madam Fussa-ma-fiddle ain't choose fer ter git up? I bait yo'
she git up when she ter home, and I bait yo' she ain't gitting somebody
ter dress her, an' wait on her han' an' foot like Mandy done been a-doin'
sense yistiddy; ner she ain' been keepin' better folks a-waiting fer dey
meals. I'se pintedly put out wid de way things is been gwine in dis hyer
'stablishmint fer de past two days, an' 's fur 's I kin see dey ain' gwine
mend none neider. No, not fer a considerbul spell lessen we has one

grand, hifalutin' tornader. Yo' hyar me!"
"I sho' does hyar yo' Mis' Lucy, an' I sho' 'grees wid yo' ter de very top
notch. Dere's gwine ter be de very dibble--'scuse me please, ma'am,
'scuse me, but ma feelin's done got de better of ma breedin'--ter pay ef
things go on as dey've begun since de Madam--an' dat dawg--invest
deyselves 'pon Severndale. But yonder comin' our yo'ng mistiss," he
concluded as a clear, sweet voice was heard singing just beyond the
windows, and quick decisive footsteps came across the broad piazza,
and Peggy Stewart, only daughter and heiress of beautiful
"Severndale," entered the room. By her side Tzaritza, her snowy
Russian wolfhound, paced with stately mien; a thoroughbred pair
indeed.
"Oh, Jerome, I am just starved. That breakfast table is irresistible.
Mammy, is Aunt Katherine ready?"
"I make haste fer ter inquire, baby," answered the old nurse, hurrying
from the room.
"I trus' she is," was Jerome's comment,