He found it all right, and he mounted the seat and drove to the market space, and took a stand, and began to offer his produce as zealously as any farmer on the ground—taking care, in the mean time, to wear his spectacles and broad-brimmed hat, and to keep up his character in voice and manner; and, as the morning advanced, he began to drive a brisk business.
Meantime Sybil, left alone in her poor room at the little inn, arose and locked the door after Lyon, to prevent intrusion before she should effect her disguise, and when she had thus insured her privacy, she began to dress.
As soon as she had transformed herself, she opened the door and called for Rachel.
The landlord’s daughter entered, giving her guest good-morning, and kindly inquiring how she had slept.
“I slept like a top! But I’m not well this morning neither. So I’d just like to have my victuals sent up here,” answered Sybil.
“Very well; what would you like?”
“Fried fish, and pork-steaks, and bri’led chickings, and grilled bacon, and—let me see! Have you any oysters?”
“Yes, very fine ones.”
“Well, then, I’ll take some stewed oysters too, and some poached eggs, and preserved quinces, and fried potatoes, and corn pone, and hot rolls, and buckwheat cakes, and cold bread and butter, and some coffee, and buttermilk and sweet milk. And that’s all, I believe; for, you see, I an’t well, and I haven’t come to my stomach yet; but if I can think of anything else, I will let you know.
“Is your father going to eat his breakfast with you?”