The home-coming of the master brought everybody on the run to the porch: the men in the neighboring field; the gardener, who came bounding over his flower-beds; Aunt Dinah, drying her fat hands on her apron, to grasp her master’s; Bundy, who helped him to alight; half a dozen pickaninnies and twice as many dogs, and last Adam and Olivia, who came flying down the front stairs, followed by little Phil.
The Judge alighted from the gig with some difficulty, Bundy guiding his foot so that it rested on the iron step, and helped him to the ground. The ride had been a trying one, and the heat and dust had left their marks on his face.
“And how about the portrait?” were his first words after kissing his wife and child and shaking hands with Gregg. “Is it finished, and are you pleased, my dear?”
“Yes, and it’s lovely, only it’s not me, I tell him.”
“Not you? Who is it, then?”
“Oh, somebody twice as pretty!”
“No. It’s not one-quarter, not one-tenth as beautiful!” There was a ring in Adam’s voice that showed the tribute came from his heart.
“But that’s the dress and the background; and the lovely blossoms. Oh, you’d never believe that old jar could look so well!”
“Background! Jar! Where did you sit?” He had changed his coat now, and Bundy was brushing the dust from his trousers and shoes.