“How do you do, Ceres?” she cheerfully inquired of the kill-joy who stood there to receive her.
“Fanky, miss, I do as well as I kin in sich a mis’able worl’ as dis. An’ how do yo’ do yo’se’f? An’ so yo’s got home sabe, w’ich is mo’ dan I looked fo’. An’ did Mis’er and Missis Gray an’ de chillun get drowned at sea, goin’ to furrin countries?”
“Oh, no. They arrived safe, and were all quite well when I heard from them, a week ago.”
“Well, dat’s mo’ dan I ’spected, too,” said Serious, in the tone of saying, “And more than they deserved.”
“Well, come in, young mist’ess, or yo’ll be gettin’ ob yo’ deaf ob col’.”
“What! On this fine April night?”
“Ap’il weader is ’ceitful, young mist’ess—moughty ’ceitful,” said the sorrowful philosopher, as she opened the door of the oak parlor, where a pleasant fire was burning and a neat supper table was set.
An armchair was placed near the hearth. A broad lounge stood against the wall, and on it lay Owlet, fast asleep.
Pompous had left the room to help Puck to bring in the baggage and to stable the horses.
“I do not think I want supper, Ceres,” said Roma, as she drew off her gloves, took off her bonnet, and sank down into the armchair.