“Oh! she is very old and very ugly,” exclaimed Mittie, “and I assure you, will give you a very uncourteous reception.”
“Youth and beauty and courtesy will only appear more lovely by force of contrast,” said Clinton, offering her his hand to assist her over the stile, with a glance of irresistible persuasion.
Mittie was constrained to yield, but an anxious flush rose to her cheek for the result of this dreaded interview. She had not visited Miss Thusa since her return from school, for she had no pleasing associations connected with her to draw her to her presence. Since her memorable journey with her wheel, Miss Thusa had taken possession of her former abode, and no entreaties could induce her to resume her wandering life. She never revealed the mystery of the advertisement, or the result of her journey, but a female Ixion, bound to the wheel, spun away her solitary hours, and nursed her own peculiar, solemn traits of character.
The house looked very much like a hermitage, with its low, slanting, wigwam roof, and dark stone walls, planted in the midst of underbrush, through which no visible path was seen. There was no gate, but a stile, made of massy logs, piled in the form of steps, which were beautifully carpeted with moss. A well, whose long sweep was also wreathed with moss, was just visible above the long, rank grass, with its old oaken bucket swinging in the air.
“What a superb old hermitage!” exclaimed Clinton, as they approached the door. “I feel perfectly sublime already. If the lion queen is worthy of her lair, I would make a pilgrimage to visit her.”
“Now, pray, brother,” said Mittie, determined to make as short a stay as possible, “don’t ask her to tell any of her horrible stories. I am sure,” she added, turning to Clinton, “you would find them exceedingly wearisome.”
“They are the most interesting things in the world,” said Louis, with provoking enthusiasm, as opening the door, he bowed his sister in—then taking Clinton’s arm, ushered him into the presence of the stately spinster.
Miss Thusa did not rise, but suffering her foot to pause on the treadle, she pushed her spectacles to the top of her head, and looked round upon her unexpected visitors. Mittie, who felt that the dark shaded eye of Clinton was upon her, accosted her with unwonted politeness, but it was evident the stern hostess returned her greeting with coldness and repulsion. Her features relaxed, when Louis, cordially grasping her hand, expressed his delight at seeing her looking so like the Miss Thusa of his early boyhood. Perceiving the aristocratic stranger, she acknowledged his graceful, respectful bow, by rising, and her tall figure towered like a column of gray marble in the centre of the low apartment.
“And who is Mr. Bryant Clinton?” said she, scanning him with her eye of prophecy, “that he should visit the cabin of a poor, old, lonely woman like me? I didn’t expect such an honor. But I suppose he came for the sake of the company he brought—not what he could find here.”
“We brought him, Miss Thusa,” said Louis; “we want him to become acquainted with all our friends, and you know we would not forget you.”