“Does he own slaves?” said Charlotte, her eyes still on her sister’s face.
“Of course!” replied Mrs. Ware. “You evidently don’t remember the place, Charlotte. It is a large tobacco plantation, and when we were there Mr. Delavan had a great many slaves.”
Charlotte sprang to her feet and poised the kitten on her shoulder. “Then you won’t like him, Rhoda—and I shall!” Whistling merrily, she took some dancing steps toward the door.
“Charlotte!” called her mother reprovingly, “Do try to remember that you’re not a child any more! I’ve told you so often it’s not ladylike to whistle!”
Rhoda smiled at her fondly. “Don’t you know, sister, what happens to whistling women and crowing hens?”
“Oh fudge! That’s all nonsense. I heard a better one the other day—
‘Girls that whistle and hens that crow
Catch the pleasures as they go.’
There’s some truth in that! I’m going to show father my new bonnet, and he doesn’t care if I do whistle!”
Mrs. Ware gazed after her as she floated down the veranda and disappeared around the corner of the house, tilting her skirts and whistling.