“Yes, ma'am,” answered Paul, watching the rapid movement of the old lady's fingers.
“Mine is Aunt Lucy,” she continued, “that is what everybody calls me. So now we know each other, and shall soon be good friends, I hope. I suppose you have hardly been here long enough to tell how you shall like it.”
Paul confessed that thus far he did not find it very pleasant.
“No, I dare say not,” said Aunt Lucy, “I can't say I think it looks very attractive myself. However, it isn't wholly the fault of Mr. and Mrs. Mudge. They can't afford to do much better, for the town allows them very little.”
Aunt Lucy's remarks were here interrupted by the apparition of the worthy landlady at the door.
“Dinner's ready, folks,” said that lady, with little ceremony, “and you must come out quick if you want any, for I'm drove with work, and can't be hindered long.”
The summons was obeyed with alacrity, and the company made all haste to the dining-room, or rather the kitchen, for it was here that the meals were eaten.
In the center of the room was set a table without a cloth, a table-cloth being considered a luxury quite superfluous. Upon this were placed several bowls of thin, watery liquid, intended for soup, but which, like city milk, was diluted so as hardly to be distinguishable. Beside each bowl was a slice of bread.
Such was the bill of fare.
“Now, folks, the sooner you fall to the better,” exclaimed the energetic Mrs. Mudge, who was one of those driving characters, who consider any time spent at the table beyond ten minutes as so much time wasted.