“Who are Miss Carsey's relatives, her advisers?”
“She ain't got none. She didn't hab a livin', breathin' soul but her paw, 'ceptin' me an' Carline, an' Carline's liable to drop off mos' anytime.”
“But who is going to live with her?”
“I spec she gwine git married some day,” Jimpson said hopefully, “all de boys been plumb 'stracted 'bout dat chile since she wuz a little girl. But she wuz so crazy 'bout her paw, she jes laff at 'em. Now de Cunnel's gone, she'll hab to git somebody else to make ober.”
“Well, I must find out about that hill,” said Mrs. Sequin, turning for a last glimpse. “Whose old place is this we are coming to?”
“Dis is our place, dis is Thornwood,” said Uncle Jimpson, half in pride, half in apology, as he skirted the holes in the road. “It don't look lak itself. It's a terrible pretty place when it's fixed up.”
“Dreadfully run down,” said Mrs. Sequin to herself, making a sweeping survey of the premises, “all this front lawn ought to be terraced and have granitoid walks and formal approaches. The house could be made quite imposing.”
They had turned in the long winding avenue, and were following the old gray wall that swept in a wide circle past the negro cabins, then toward the house.
Suddenly Mrs. Sequin pointed dramatically to the little porch of one of the cabins.
“A Sheraton! Great heavens! Where did it come from? What is it doing there?”