“Now, young marse, yo’ mus’n’t show no s’prise at nuffin de ole madam say, nor likewise conterdic’ her.”
With these words, she opened the door.
CHAPTER VII
IN DOROTHY HARCOURT’S ROOM
It was a large, square, low-ceiled, but light and cheerful room, with two north windows looking out upon a green and shaded lawn, now just beginning to spring and bud with grass and blossoms which leaf and flower in April, and two west windows, opening on a back piazza, beyond which was the bleaching ground, with the laundry and the summer kitchen in the distance.
The four-post bedstead, with its blue chintz curtains, in the corner, between the north and the west windows; the tall chest of drawers, topped by its tall looking-glass, that stood between the two north windows; the two buffets, one on each side of the fireplace—that on the right holding the household medicines and cordials, that on the left the toilet service, which, when in use, was placed upon its top; the deep easy-chair by the side of the bed; the flag and cane armchairs, with their quilted patchwork cushions; last and best, the open wood fire, before which the old lady now sat, with her knitting in her hand.
She wore a rusty black bombazine dress, with a white muslin handkerchief crossed over her breast, and a white net cap with black ribbon, above the plainly parted gray hair.
As soon as she heard the door open she turned quickly around, and, seeing Harcourt, arose, trembling, and tottered to meet him, exclaiming:
“My own dear Will! I am so glad to see you!”
“My dear mother!” he responded, with emotion.
And he caught her in his arms and gently replaced her in the chair from which she had started to receive him.