“Ring? What should I ring for?” demanded the visitor, drawing a chair before the blazing fire, seating herself, putting her feet upon the fender, and pulling up the edge of her skirt to toast her shins.
Luce paused in her task of placing the knives and forks to look at the vandal.
“Why, ma’am, for somebody to come an’ wait on yer, an’ fix the fire, an’ fetch hot water, an’ that,” she said.
“Fiddle-de-dee! Wait on your granny!” said the stranger, holding her chubby hands over the fire, and rubbing them, with a sense of comfort.
But Luce had finished placing the knives and forks, and was now bringing china from a corner buffet.
“What’s that you have got in your hand there? Is it the sugar pot?” asked the intruder.
“Yes, ma’am,” answered the perplexed woman.
“Hold it here to me.”
Luce complied, and the visitor took the sugar bowl and poured from it a handful of white lumps, and returned it, saying:
“I reckon I’ll champ this sugar to pass away the time while I’m waiting for ’em to come down.”