And so murmuring to himself he fell asleep to dream that he himself was the model guide, philosopher and friend required by the young widow.
The next day, Easter Monday, brought a messenger from Lytton Lodge; a messenger who was no other than Mithridates, commonly called "Taters," once a servant of Frederick Fanning, the landlord of White Perch Point, but now a hired hand of John Lytton's.
Mithridates, or Taters, rode an infirm-looking old draft horse, with a dilapidated saddle and bridle, and wore a hat and coat exceedingly shabby for a gentleman's servant.
He also led a second horse, furnished with a side-saddle.
He dismounted at the carriage-steps, tied the horses to a tree, and boldly went to the front door and knocked.
Jerome opened it, and administered a sharp rebuke to the messenger for presuming to knock at the visitors' door instead of at the servants'.
"If I'd a come to the servants' I'd rapped at the servants' door; but as I have comed to the white folks' I rap at dere door. Here; I've fotch a letter from Marse Jacky Lytton to his niece, Miss Lorrer," said Taters, pompously.
"Give it to me then, and I'll take it in to her," said Jerome.
"Set you up with it! I must 'liver of this here letter with my own hands inter her own hands," said Taters, stoutly.
"Well, come along, for a fool! You're a purty looking objick to denounce into the parlor, a'n't you now?" said Jerome, leading the way.
At that moment, unseen by Jerome, but distinctly seen by Taters, a face appeared at the head of the stairs for an instant, but meeting the eye of Taters turned white as death and vanished.
Taters uttered a terrible cry and sank, ashen pale and quaking with horror, at the foot of the steps.
"Why, what in the name of the old boy is the matter with you, man? Have you trod on a nail or piece of glass, or anything that has gone through your foot, or what is it?" demanded Jerome, in astonishment.
"Oh, no, no, no! it's worse'n that--it's worse'n that! It's no end worse'n that! Oh, Lor'! oh, Lor'! oh, Lor'!" cried Taters, holding his knees and sawing backward and forward in an agony of horror.
"Ef you don't stop that howlin' and tell me what's the matter of you I'm blessed ef I don't get a bucket of ice water and heave it all over you to fetch you to your senses!" exclaimed the exasperated Jerome.