“I’ll inquiah, ma’am,” replied Tulula in even softer tones. “Be pleased to enteh.”
Mrs. McBirney would have been quite content to sit on the porch, but the thoughts surging in her brain impelled her to accept Tulula’s invitation.
“Will you be seated in the mornin’ room, ma’am?”
Mrs. McBirney hesitated a moment. Then she said shyly:
“If you don’t think Mrs. Carson would mind, Tulula, I’d like to sit in the drawing room this time.”
“Why ce’t’ney, ma’am. Suit yo’sef.”
Tulula rustled away with her message, and Mary McBirney, who all her life had seen only the mountain or the village homes, entered the long shadowy drawing room, with its paintings, its occasional white statue, its shining floor and carved furniture, and sitting there, measuring all this meant of knowledge and delight, steeled her heart for the sacrifice.
Then Mr. and Mrs. Carson entered together, and upborn by love, Mrs. McBirney went to meet them, saying:
“I asked to come in here for—for a reason. I hope you don’t mind, ma’am.”
“Our home is for our friends,” answered Mrs. Carson gently. “I would like to see you here often, friend.”