There, nestled among the trees, she saw the little whitewashed shanty, with clotheslines full of newly washed clothes hanging all around it.
“Poor souls!” Roma said to herself. “That is the nearest approach to the country life they long for to be found in the suburbs of the city; and how much better is that little nest in the fragrant pine wood than a room in a stifling tenement house.”
As she walked toward the shanty, Lucy, in a red turban and a blue gown, came out of the house with a tub of clothes in her hands, and began to take them out and hang them on the line.
She was so intent upon her work that she did not see Miss Fronde until that young lady came immediately behind her and said:
“How do you do, Aunt Lucy?”
“Who dat?” exclaimed the woman, with a start. “Lor’ b’ess my po’ soul, young miss! I f’ought it was a speerit as spoke, I did, fo’ a fac’! So yo’s com’d back? ’Deed, I’s moughty proud to see yo’, honey. Come in de house. Tom, he’s gone to ca’ay some clo’es home; he’ll stan’ on his head w’en he years yo’ is com’d back—’deed he will!”
Roma followed the woman into the shanty, and found the poorest, barest, but cleanest little nest that ever two blackbirds found shelter in.
The little bed in the corner, the big stove, with its boiler, and the wooden bench with its washtub, seemed to fill all the space.
Roma sat down on a three-legged stool, because there was no better seat in the place.
“I am going down to the old house on the Isle of Storms, Lucy. How would you and your boy like to go with me?” inquired Roma.