"Now look here, Miss Miriam," said he, lowering his voice a little, but
not enough to make him seem disrespectfully confidential, "what you want
is a first-class colored cook--not Phoebe, she's no good cook, an' won't
live in the country, an' is so mighty stuck up that she don't like
nuthin' but wheat bread, an' ain't no 'count anyway. But I got a sister,
Miss Miriam. She's a number one, fust-class cook, knows all the northen
an' southen an' easten an' westen kind of cookin', an' she's only got two
chillun, what could keep in the house all day long an' not trouble
nobody, 'side bringin' kindlin' an' runnin' errands; an' the husband,
he's dead, an' that's a good sight better, Miss Miriam, than havin' him
hangin' round, eatin' his meals here, an' bein' no use, 'cause he had
rheumatism all over him, 'cept on his appetite."
This suggestion pleased Miriam; here was a chance for another old
family servant.
"I think I should like to have your sister, Mike," she said; "what is her
name? Is she working for anybody now?"
"Her name is Seraphina--Seraphina Paddock.
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