The days sped rapidly by. The cool winds came sweeping up from the broad Hudson, while the frosts painted the trees with gaudy tints, blighting the flowers and searing the green grass.
"Are we not imposing upon good nature?" the son asked one morning, as, leaning on the arm of his father, they walked out among the fallen leaves that were carpeting the smoothly shorn lawn. "It seems to me we must be burdensome. Why do we not go to our rooms at the hotel?"
"Are you not more comfortable here? Mrs. Pierson is so kind, and we have all become so fully domesticated at a home fireside that it would be a sad change to take up our quarters at the public inn."
"But Ellen wrote—"
"Ah, yes—'that she had secured rooms at Maple Grove,' which, after all, meant here under these maple trees. But if you desire it, my son—"
"I am not the only one to be considered. It seems that the mother and daughter have altogether too much work to do, with only one servant in the kitchen, and she a white girl."
The father laughed. "You have no idea how easily they perform their labor. Even the servant sings as cheerfully as though she was mistress of all, and indeed it would be hard to tell who fills that important position in this home. But I will do just as you and Ellen shall decide."
They had reached the door, and were entering as the last sentence was being finished.
"Decide what?" interrogated Ellen.
"About those rooms at the hotel;" laughed the father.