Now her sacrifices had gone to purchase snuff and perfume for the Coxcomb.
From a photograph.
“‘WHERE THE GREAT LLOYD SETS HIS HALL’!”
Morgan had often seen Dame Evans give the traditional Vermont “beech seal” to her sons—and he would not deny they needed it; and he had seen her dash scalding water on a prowling Indian; he guessed Robert Evans’ greeting, when they reached home, would not be an affectionate one.
On the way back to Randolph, Evans was in a temper and swore grievously. Morgan had caught a cold and coughed constantly. The journey was withal a trying one; ’twas not to be wondered at that the horse’s memories of Boston were neither beautiful nor gay, and that he never had a desire to repeat his trip.
It was dark when they reached home, but Mistress Evans, who had been on the lookout, threw open the kitchen door as they entered the gate, and the barnyard was flooded with the warm glow of the firelight from within. Her head was tied up in a fustian square and a fur was thrown over her shoulders. She ran out to greet them, a lanthorn in her hand.
“Welcome, home, Husband, dear!” she cried, cheerily. “Give me the purchases. I would see my calico frock without delay. Yes, and get to work on it, for ’tis no short task to stitch those long seams—with chores to do besides!”
She held out her hand eagerly.
“Go into the house directly, Wife, out of the cold!” evaded Evans, taking the lanthorn from her. “I will be in presently—when I have bedded down the Morgan,” he added.