out of his grave. "My dear friends," Major Slocomb would say, when, after
his wife's death, some new extravagance was commented upon, "I felt I owed
the additional slight expenditure to the memory of that queen among women,
suh--Major Talbot's widow."

He had espoused, too, with all the ardor of the new settler, the several
articles of political faith of his neighbors,--loyalty to the State,
belief in the justice and humanity of slavery and the omnipotent rights of
man,--white, of course,--and he had, strange to say, fallen into the
peculiar pronunciation of his Southern friends, dropping his final _g_'s,
and slurring his _r_'s, thus acquiring that soft cadence of speech which
makes their dialect so delicious.

As to his title of "Major," no one in or out of the county could tell
where it originated. He had belonged to no company of militia, neither
had he won his laurels on either side during the war; nor yet had the
shifting politics of his State ever honored him with a staff appointment
of like grade. When pressed, he would tell you confidentially that he had
really inherited the title from his wife, whose first husband, as was well
known, had earned and borne that military distinction; adding tenderly,
that she had been so long accustomed to the honor that he had continued it
after her death simply out of respect to her memory.

But the major was still interviewing Delmonico's flunky, oblivious of
everything but the purpose in view, when I touched his shoulder, and
extended my hand.

"God bless me! Not you? Well, by gravy! Here, now, colonel, you can tell
me where Jack Hardy lives. I've been for half an hour walkin' round this
garden lookin' for him. I lost the letter with the number in it, so I came