Almost every neighborhood had its morning (and often its evening) "Readings," presided over by some one who read well and without fatigue--some sweet old maid, perhaps, who knew how to grow old gracefully.

At these times a table would be rolled into the library by the deferential servant of the house, on which he would place the dear lady's spectacles and a book, its ivory marker showing where the last reading had ended--it might be Prescott's "Ferdinand and Isabella," or Irving's "Granada," or Thackeray's "Vanity Fair," or perhaps, Dickens's "Martin Chuzzlewit." At eleven o'clock the girls would begin to arrive, each one bringing her needle-work of some kind--worsted, or embroidery, or knitting--something she could manage without discomfort to herself or anybody about her, and when the last young lady was in her seat, the same noiseless darky would tiptoe in and take his place behind the old maid's chair.

Then he would slip a stool under her absurdly small slippers and tiptoe out again, shutting the door behind him as quietly as if he found the dear lady asleep--and so the reading would begin.
A reading by Richard, however, was always an event of unusual importance, and an invitation to be present was never declined whether received by letter or by word of mouth.
St.George had been looking forward eagerly to the night, and when the shadows began to fall in his now almost bare bedroom, he sent for Todd to help him dress.
"Have you got a shirt for me, Todd ?" "Got seben oh 'em.

Dey wants a li'l' trimmin' roun' de aidges, but I reckon we kin make 'em do--Aunt Jemima sont 'em home dis mawnin'.

She's been a-workin' on 'em, she says.