Now, however, the seriousness of the question was coming very near to Dorothea. Right in the family was the possibility of a cruel separation. Whatever Mrs. Stewart might have done, and whether she had sold her servants or not, it was quite clear to Dorothea’s keen mind that she had the power to do so, and that in itself did not seem right. Mrs. Stewart might be just as thoughtful of those who were dependent upon her as was Aunt Parthenia, but she was sure there must be many throughout the South who would have no such consideration for the unfortunates over whom the law gave them absolute control.
As they swept into the drive at Crosslands, Uncle Jastrow turned in his seat and addressed his mistress.
“I on’y hopes, Ol’ Miss,” he said, referring to the mud that had accumulated on the running gear of the carriage, “that none of the fambly is gwine to see we-all comin’ into the place lookin’ like this.”
Mrs. May laughed.
“No one will blame you for the state of the roads, Uncle Jastrow,” she said.
But this did not placate the old man.
“These hosses and this cahhiage don’t look like they eveh seen a currycomb nor yet a shammy,” he grunted, and drove up to the house with the air of a martyr at the stake.
Mrs. May and Dorothea were ushered into the parlor, where they found Corinne and her mother busy counting gold pieces. On hearing the door open Mrs. Stewart hastily swept some of the stacks of coin into her bag, whereat Corinne was moved to protest.
“Now I’ll have to count them all over again, and it’s only Aunt ’Thenia and Dorothea.”
Both greeted their visitors with great warmth, Corinne inquiring for Harriot, (left at home with a visiting governess, much to that young lady’s disgust,) and her mother rejoicing at the timelessness of the visit.