“Well?” turning upon the doorstep, with a bit of impatience showing on her merry face.
“Do you talk all the time when you are at Mr. Brook’s, or—”
“Isabelle!” called Mrs. Beckwith’s voice from the sitting-room.
“Yes, Mother.”
“Please make a cup of tea and bring it to the doctor, with a plate of biscuit. He has a long drive before him, and must not be let to go without something.”
“Dear, dear me! My mother’s hospitality is something formidable! The very first biscuits I ever made! And this tea doesn’t taste like that we used to get in town! But if she had only a glass of cold water and a bit of hard-tack, she’d offer it to the Queen of England, with just that same easy grace. Well, one thing I foresee in the country is the frequency of ‘droppers in,’ as Mr. Dolloway calls them. But the next caller who comes shall have better biscuits than these, even if Bonny did praise them. And after all, it’s rather pleasant to think people are willing to be social with you, as country folks seem inclined, without knowing all about your past life. That’s one thing I like! And there’s something very pleasant in the word ‘neighbor.’ I love to hear Miss Joanna say it, in her low voice; and if I am to be a house-mistress I’m going to be a good ‘neighbor,’ too, with her for a pattern as well as my little Motherkin.”
Whether the reflections with which Isabelle prepared her tray of simple refreshments had anything to do with the grace of the serving may be guessed; certainly, instead of the half-frown which Mrs. Beckwith feared to see, the girl’s manner was so genial and withal so modest that the plain fare acquired a keen relish for the hungry physician, who had still many miles to drive before he could find leisure for his own table; and he went away with the thought in mind: “That family is an addition to the town. I like them. I like them all, from the fragile-looking mother down to the rough little boy. But he’s a shaver! I took good care to punch hardest on the sorest places, for he needs a lesson! Well, that may be my first visit, but I think it will not be my last to The Lindens, under the new régime!”
“Dear, I am pleased with you!” said Mrs. Beckwith, warmly, giving her daughter a motherly caress. “I was afraid you would find it a trial to be hospitable.”
“It was, Motherkin! But I—conquered.”
A second kiss followed the first, and Isabelle resolved that the next tax put upon her “neighborliness” should not be matter of so much surprise to her little mother.