The hostess went across the hall, opened the bar-room door, and beckoned Edith to follow her.
In a chair by the stove sat a miserable bloated wreck of a man, drivelling and mumbling in a drunken lethargy.
"That's his father," said the woman in a whisper. "When he gets as bad as that he comes here because he knows my husband is the only one as won't turn him out of doors."
An expression of intense disgust flitted across Edith's face, and by the necessary law of association poor Arden sank in her estimation through the foulness of his father's vice.
"Is there anything against the son?" asked Edith in some alarm. "I've engaged him to bring up my furniture and trunks. I hope he's honest."
"Oh, yes, he's honest enough, and he'd be mighty mad if anybody questioned that, but he's kind o' soured and ugly, and don't notice nobody nor nothing. The son and Mrs. Lacey keep to themselves, the man does as you see, but the daughter, who's a smart, pretty girl, tries to rise above it all, and make her way among the rest of the girls; but she has a hard time of it, I guess, poor child."
"I don't wonder," said Edith, "with such a father."
But between the punch and fatigue, she was glad to take refuge from the landlady's garrulousness, and all her troubles in quiet sleep.
The next morning the storm was passing away in broken masses of cloud, through which the sun occasionally shone in April-like uncertainty.
After an early breakfast she and Hannibal were driven in an open wagon to what was to be her future home—the scene of unknown joys and sorrows.