“I do not know which one I would like to give up,” was the grave reply.
“It would be like the Irishman with his flock—wouldn’t it? Every one of us has some special gift or grace. Mine is simply a grace—winning ways and curly hair. O, there’s Miss Churchill, and this hall all in a litter!”
The hall was so wide and airy that we used to sit there and sew in the summer. Mamma was cutting on the table; so she just gathered the pieces together, and pushed out papa’s chintz-covered arm-chair. I sat by the window, crocheting some tiny garments for baby Edith. Fan opened the hall door wide before Miss Churchill could ring to announce herself. Mamma shook hands with her cordially.
The Churchills were some of the old families in the town. Oddly enough, they had never intermarried with their neighbors, but kept to themselves, and were considered rather haughty and exclusive. They lived over on the west side, which was the aristocratic part of the town, there being no mills or factories near.
Miss Esther Churchill, our visitor, was a tall, elegant woman of perhaps forty-five. Mr. Kenton Churchill, the head of the family, was about ten years older. Next to him came Mrs. Ogden, who had lived abroad a great deal, and was now a widow, but wealthy, with one son and one daughter. Then there was Miss Lucy, much younger, an invalid, injured quite early in life by being thrown from a horse. They were refined and particularly nice people, with those little formal ways that always kept us in awe. Their house was very handsome, and it seemed as if they must have everything that heart could wish for. They always paid for two of the best pews in church, one of which they used, while the other was considered free. Then Mr. Churchill subscribed liberally to nearly every charitable object; but, somehow, they never mixed much with the congregation; yet they were always spoken of in the highest terms. Papa and mamma were always invited over to tea once a year, and they called occasionally. Miss Esther had made a state call upon baby Edith, bringing her a handsome cap and cloak. Mamma had not returned that; so we were a little surprised, and, to use a provincialism, “put about,” for an instant. But mamma has such a wonderful grace and self-possession that there was no awkwardness.
“How do you do, young ladies? Quite busy, I see;” and she shook hands with both. “How cosy and summery you look here. Why, it is quite like a picture!”
The broad hall was covered with matting. There was a large, old-fashioned hat-stand on one side, very much like the beautiful new ones coming into fashion. It had quite a large glass, and drawers under it, with branching arms out both sides. On either side of it was a quaint, high-backed chair. They might have come over in the Mayflower, but I don’t suppose they did. A tall vase of ivy stood on the floor, the green branches climbing over some picture-frames; and there were several brackets hanging about, holding vases of flowers, besides a luxuriant fernery, that had received contributions from all of us. The hall door opened on one side, while the stairs went up on the other, and in this sort of shut-off corner was our work-room.
“Yes, it is quite like a picture,” she went on. “It seems to me that a hall should be the largest and most beautiful part of the house, and that the family ought to be gathered there. I like the old-fashioned descriptions of people dining in their hall, or giving audience.”
“And we add sewing on to that,” said Fan, with a little laugh. “Instead of Carrara marble, we have multiplication tables.”
“We have been somewhat straitened for room latterly,” mamma explained; “for, when baby is asleep we like to keep it quiet in the nursery; and papa’s study is the one spot that we never invade with sewing.”