There wasn’t a particle of wind about that soft September night, but that made little difference to Miranda. She was part of a play and she was acting her best. If her impromptu part was a little irregular, it was at least well meant, boldly and bravely presented.
Miranda found a candle on the shelf and, stooping to the smouldering fire upon the hearth, blew and coaxed it into flame enough to light it.
“This is Mr. Spafford’s home, is it not?” questioned the old gentleman whom Miranda had heard speak first on the sidewalk.
“Oh, yes, indeed,” said the girl glibly. “Jest come in and set down. Here, let me take your hats. Jest put your bags right there on the floor.”
“You are— Are you—Mrs. Spafford?” hesitated the courtly old gentleman.
“Oh, landy sakes, no, I ain’t her,” laughed Miranda well pleased. “Mis’ Spafford had jest stepped out a bit when her husband come home, an’ he’s gone after her. You see she didn’t expect her husband home till late to-night. But you set down. They’ll be home real soon now. They’d oughter ben here before this. I ’spose she’d gone on further’n she thought she’d go when she stepped out.”
“It’s all right,” said the other gentleman, “no harm done, I’m sure. I hope we shan’t inconvenience Mrs. Spafford any coming so unexpectedly.”
“No, indeedy!” said quick-witted Miranda. “You can’t ketch Mis’ Spafford unprepared if you come in the middle o’ the night. She’s allus ready fer comp’ny.” Miranda’s eyes shone. She felt she was getting on finely doing the honors.
“Well, that’s very nice. I’m sure it makes one feel at home. I wonder now if she would mind if we were to go right up to our room and wash our hands. I feel so travel-stained. I’d like to be more presentable before we meet her,” said the first gentleman, who looked very weary.
But Miranda was not dashed.