“Well then she might—There are plenty of them—very good comfortable ones—”
“You mean homes for old ladies? Oh, Mother, you know Father would never consent to that. Neither would Uncle Tom nor Big Josh. She would hate it and then there’s Uncle Billy and the horses—Cupid and Puck—to say nothing of the chariot.”
Further discussion was impossible. Mother and son reached the yard gate as Uncle Billy 28 opened the coach door and announced the fact that Miss Ann had arrived at her destination. Then began the unpacking of the visitor. It was a roomy carriage, and well that it was so. When Miss Peyton traveled she traveled. Having no home, everything she possessed must be carried with her. Trunks were strapped on the back of the coach and inside with the mistress were boxes and baskets and bundles, suitcases and two of those abominations known as telescopes, from which articles of clothing were bursting forth.
It was plain to see from the untidy packing that Miss Ann and Uncle Billy had left their last abode in a hurry. Even Miss Peyton’s features might have been called untidy, if such a term could be used in connection with a countenance whose every line was aristocratic. As a rule that lady was able so to control her emotions that the uninitiated were ignorant of the fact that she had emotions. She gave one the impression on that morning in June of having packed her emotions hurriedly, as she had her clothes, and they were darting from her flashing eyes as were garments from the telescopes.
Gently, almost as though he were performing a religious rite, Uncle Billy lifted the shabby baggage from the coach. 29
“Let me help you, Uncle Billy. Good morning, Cousin Ann. I am very glad to see you,” said Jeff, although it was impossible to see Cousin Ann until some of the luggage was removed.
“Thank you, cousin.” Miss Ann spoke from the depths of the coach. Her voice trembled a little.
At last, every box, bag and bundle was removed and piled by Uncle Billy upon each side of the yard gate like a triumphal arch through which his beloved mistress might pass.
Old Billy unfolded the steps of the coach. These steps were supposed to drop at the opening of the door but the spring had long ago lost its power and the steps must be lowered by hand.
“Mind whar you tread, Miss Ann,” he whispered. Nobody must hear him suggest that the steps were not safe. Nobody must ever know that he and Miss Ann and the coach and horses were getting old and played out.