Aunt Jemima watched him in grim silence to the foot of the stairs.
“Mind,” she then called after him, “she is not to come down.”
“Cobbler” Horn did not so far set his sister at defiance as to act in flat contradiction to her decree. Perhaps he himself did not think it well that the child should be brought downstairs again, after once having been put to bed. But, if Marian might not come down, Marian’s father might stay up. As soon as his step sounded on the stairs the child’s wailing ceased.
“Zat zoo, daddy?” and the father felt, in the darkness, that two tiny arms were stretched out towards him in piteous welcome. Lighting the candle, which stood on the table by the window, he sat down on the edge of the bed, and, in a moment, Marian’s little brown arms were tightly clasped about his neck. For a brief space he held the child to his breast; and then he gently laid her back upon the pillow, and having tucked the bed-clothes well about her, he kissed the little tear-stained face, and sat talking in the soothing tones which a loving parent can so well employ.
Leaving him there, let us make a somewhat closer inspection of Miss Jemima, as she sits in solitary state before the fire downstairs. You observe that she is tall, angular, and rigid. Her figure displays the uprightness of a telegraph pole, and her face presents a striking arrangement of straight lines and sharp points. Her eyes gleam like points of fire beneath her positively shaggy brows. Her complexion is dark, and her hair, though still abundant, is already turning grey. Her dress is plainness itself, and she wears no jewelry, all kinds of which she regards with scorn. Her old-fashioned silver watch is a family heirloom, and a broad black ribbon is her only watch-guard.
Yet there is nothing of malice or evil intent in Aunt Jemima’s soul. She is no less strictly upright in character than in form. She cannot tolerate wickedness, folly, or weakness of any kind. So far well. The lack of her character is the tenderness which is woman’s crowning grace. When she is kind it is in such a way that one would almost prefer for her to be unkind.
Such is Aunt Jemima, as we see her sitting in front of her brother’s fire, and as we know her to be. Need we wonder that, “Cobbler” Horn’s heart misgave him as to the probable fate of his little Marian in such rough, though righteous, hands?
When “Cobbler” Horn at length came downstairs, his sister was still sitting before the fire. On his appearance, she rose from her seat.
“Thomas, I am ashamed of you,” she said, as she began, in a masterful way, to make preparations for supper. “Such weakness will utterly spoil the child. But you were always foolish.”
“I am afraid, sister,” was the quiet reply, “that we shall hardly agree with one another—you and I—on that point.”