Mr. Larabee's fine country home was considered one of the best places in that part of the state. There was not a crooked fence on it, the gravel walks were as trim as though no one had ever stepped on their surface, and the grass was always cut to a certain length. The house was always painted at a certain time of the year, as were also the barns, and the place looked almost like a picture in a book.
In fact, Mr. Larabee's neighbors used to say he never took any pleasure in it, as he was always so busy looking to see if a stick or a stone had not become misplaced, or if the paint on the house or barn was not chipping off.
"So this is Nephew Richard, is it?" asked a small, prim, rather thin-faced woman, as she came to the door when the carriage containing Dick and his uncle drove up the path. "I'm glad to see you, Nephew Richard," she went on, extending a cold and clammy hand, and giving Dick a little peck that seemed more like a nip from a bird than a kiss.
"Is dinner ready?" asked Mr. Larabee.
"You know it is, Ezra," replied his wife. "I'll serve it as soon as you put the horse up. Come in, Nephew Richard, but be sure and wipe your feet."
She watched Dick while he scraped off an invisible quantity of dust from his shoes that had scarcely touched the ground that morning. After giving them what he thought was a good polishing on the mat, he started to enter the front hall.
"Wait!" almost screamed his aunt. "There's a little mud on that left heel!"
Dick obligingly gave it another scrape on the mat and started in.
"One moment, Nephew Richard," said Mrs. Larabee, in almost imploring accents. "Let me wipe your satchel off before you go in. I'm afraid it's dusty from the drive, and I can't bear dust in my house."
She kept Dick waiting on the front steps while she went in and got a cloth, with which she carefully wiped off the dress-suit case, though Dick did not see how there could be any dust on it, as it had been covered with the lap robe all the way.