She always softened in the end. She felt a little sore and touchy about Steve's engagement, and proud, too, that Miss Beekman had accepted him. Stephen had insisted some one must come in and help sew, and that his mother must have a little time for herself. Seven men and boys to make shirts for was no light matter. The little girl was learning to darn stockings very nicely and helped her mother with those.
So father Underhill took the little girl and Dobbin and the ordinary harness, for Steve had Prince and the silver-mounted trappings, and the elders could guess where he had gone. Business was dull along in August, so the men had some time for diversion, and the father always enjoyed his little daughter. Her limited knowledge and quaint comments amused him, and her sweet, innocent love touched the depths of his soul.
It was quite in the afternoon when they started. Dobbin was not as young and frisky as Prince, so they jogged along, looking at the gardens, the trees, the wild masses of vines and sumac, and then stretches of rocky space interspersed with squatters' cabins and the goats, pigs, geese, and chickens. Sometimes in after years when she rode through Central Park, she wondered if she had not dreamed all this, instead of seeing it with her own eyes.
They went over to Mr. Brockner's to inquire.
"Oh," he exclaimed, "Mrs. Brockner will be so sorry to miss you. She has talked so much about your little girl, and threatened to hunt her up. And now she's gone to Saratoga for a fortnight, to see the fashions. But you must come up again."
Then he directed them, and they drove over in a westerly course and soon came to the little stone house that bore evident marks of decay from neglect as well as age. The first story was rough stone, the half-story of shingles, that had once been painted red. There were two small windows in the gable ends, but in front the eaves overhung the doorway and the windows and were broken and moss-grown. There was a big flat stone for the doorstep, a room on one side with two windows, and on the other only one. The hall door was divided in the middle, the upper part open. There was a queer brass knocker on this, and the lower part fastened with an old-fashioned latch. The little courtyard looked tidy, and there was a great row of sweet clover along the fence, but now and then the goats would nibble it off.
When they stepped up on the stoop they saw an old lady sitting in a rocking-chair, with a little table beside her, and some knitting in her lap. She had evidently fallen into a doze. Hanny stretched up on tiptoe. A great gray cat lay asleep also. There were some mats laid about the floor, two very old arm-chairs with fine rush bottoms painted yellow, a door open on either side of the hall, and a well-worn winding stairs going up at the back.
Mr. Underhill reached over and gave a light knock. The cat lifted its head and made a queer sound like a gentle call, then went to the old lady and stretched up to her knees. She started and glanced toward the door, then rose in a little confusion.
"I am looking for a Miss Underhill," began the visitor.
"Oh, pardon me." She unbolted the lower door. "I believe I had fallen asleep. Miss Underhill?" in a sort of surprised inquiry. "I am—one of the sisters. Walk in."