This was in March.
On the day in June that Morey reached his home, raced with Amos, arranged to go in quest of “old Julius Cæsar” and his many “chilluns,” and then made his way free-hearted and devoid of care over the unkempt lawn toward the house, there was no thought in his mind of money, debts and little of the future.
“Aspley House” hardly merited such a formal title. The building itself was of wood, two stories high and long since denuded of paint. But the gallery, or porch, in front seemed part of some other architectural creation. The floor of it was flush with the yard and of brick, worn and with sections missing here and there. The columns, unencumbered with a second story floor, were of great round pillars of brick. They had once been covered with cement, but this coating had now fallen away and the soft red of the weather beaten bricks was almost covered with entwined swaying masses of honeysuckle.
Beneath these blossoming vines Morey’s mother awaited him.
“I saw it,” she exclaimed anxiously. “I’ve seen your poor father do the same. You are not hurt?”
“Hurt?” shouted Morey as his mother put her arm about his neck and wiped the blood from his face with her lace handkerchief. “I’ve forgotten it. Breakfast ready?”
In a fragrant, shaded corner of the gallery, where the brick pavement was reasonably intact, sat a little table. On the snow-white cloth rested a bowl of flowers. At two places thin, worn silver knives, forks and spoons glistened with a new polish. But the “M” had nearly disappeared from them.
“Say, mater,” laughed Morey, proud of his newly acquired Latin, “why don’t you fix this pavement? Some one’s going to break his neck on these broken bricks.”
“It should have been seen to before this,” his mother answered. “And I really believe we ought to paint the house.”
“Looks like a barn,” commented Morey, attacking a plate of Mammy Ca’line’s corn bread. “This some of our own butter?”