"Come and sit down and have some tea," she said, "and then Chris will take you to your room."
Jean obeyed, and as she sipped her cup of tea, she looked about her. The room was plainly furnished; it was wainscotted in oak, but above the wainscot, it was simply coloured in grey-blue, and some old prints adorned the walls. An oak dresser contained some really good old china; there was a bookcase, a side table holding a sewing machine and work-basket, and a couple of armchairs; the square table was in the middle of the room, and chairs were placed round it. Jean faced the two windows, which, with their deep window seats and casement panes, were the prettiest part of the room.
"This is our sitting-room," Barbara McTaggart said as she noted Jean's wandering eyes. "The kitchen is the other side of the hall; the room above this, is where we think you will like to sit and paint. It is the only room that has been preserved in its original state. We think it was used as the best bedroom by the farming folk, and they have not made so free with it as the other rooms."
"It looks a dear old house," said Jean.
"One wing of it is nearly in ruins. We cannot afford to repair it, and it is unsafe to live in. But we have as many rooms as we want. I believe originally they were all panelled rooms, but when the house was turned into a farm, a great deal of the wood was stripped off and burnt."
Their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Chris and her brother, a young man with a plain, honest face. He was introduced to Jean as "Mick." He sat down and drank a cup of tea with relish.
"I've just been selling some cattle," he said to Jean, "and it's a warm day to be much on the highroad here. I'm as thirsty as a fish, Barbara. I met Tom Barton coming home; he asked me if we had any flowers for sale. They're going to have some féte on next week, and want all the flowers they can get."
"I have nothing to do with the flower garden; Chris must settle that."
Chris squared her elbows on the table, and began to discuss the subject with her brother. Jean looked at her, as she did so. She had a bright, pleasant face, but none of the beauty that her eldest sister possessed. Her hands were red and roughened with toil, and her whole appearance seemed to bespeak that she was useful rather than ornamental.