“I know, you never did like her, although she has been so kind and nice to me and to Gertrude. Why, we, and the minister's family, and Doctor Bradstreet's people, are the only ones, except the summer folks, that she has anything to do with.”
The captain muttered that he knew it but that THAT didn't make him like her any better. His wife continued.
“I was a little put out by her to-day,” she admitted. “You see, she was SO anxious to find out things, and SO sure we couldn't be very rich, and SO certain we couldn't keep up Aunt Lavinia's big house, that—that I just had to give her as good as she sent.”
Daniel chuckled. “You did that all right,” he said.
“But I wouldn't hurt her feelings—really hurt them—for the world. I like her and admire her, and I am sure she likes me.”
“Humph! All right; only next time you get to admirin' each other I'm goin' out. That kind of admiration makes me nervous. I heard you admirin' Zuba out in the kitchen just before we left.”
“Azuba makes me awfully out of patience. She won't do what I tell her; she will wear her apron to the door; she will talk when she shouldn't. Just think what she said about you when the minister called. It was just Providence, and nothing else, that kept her from telling the Blacks what you said and how you acted at dinner. That's it—laugh! I expected you'd think it was funny.”
“Well, I give in that it does seem kind of funny to me, now, though it didn't when she started to say it. But you can't stop Zuba talkin' any more than you can a poll parrot. She means well; she's awful good-hearted—yes, and sensible, too, in her way.”
“I can't help it. She's got to learn her place. Just think of having her up there at Scarford, behaving as she does.”
The captain caught his breath.