That these several shiftings, migrations, and re-handlings had had their effect on the family belongings could be seen by even the most cursory examination of the several articles littering the sidewalk. Even the old family sideboard—and every Southern family has an old-fashioned sideboard—lacked a brass door-handle or escutcheon here and there, and similar defects could be found in Mrs. Ford’s high-poster, once the property of her dead mother, two of the carved feet being gone by reason of a collision in an extra-hazardous journey.
It was because of the knowledge gained in these experiences, as well as a fervent desire to get the whole matter over as quickly as possible, that the young girl had taken charge of the “picking-out” department, so that each article might reach her mother in regular order, and in discrete corners as much as what was left of the old mahogany was saved.
She was again on the sidewalk, dragging out a rocker, ordering a crate here, and a bundle of fire-tongs there, when the gentleman from Connecticut must have got in her way, for she broke in in an authoritative tone of voice, much to Moses’ astonishment, with:
“No, Mr. Ford, stop right where you are. Mamma doesn’t want any more small things until she gets the big ones arranged, and don’t you send them in!”
“My dear Sue, you will have to take them as they come.”
“No, I’m not going to take them as they come. I’m going to take them as I want them. You’ve got plenty of room here, and you’ve got plenty of men to help. That wardrobe comes next.”
“Well, but can’t you take these here cushions?”
“Yes, send in the cushions, but that’s the last, until I tell you what next.”
The distinguished engineer raised his hands, opening his fingers in a deprecatory way, expressive of his firm belief that she would live to see the day when she would keenly regret her interference, and in subdued, almost apologetic, tones called Moses.
“Here, Moses—your name is Moses, ain’t it?”