Now, indeed, there was neither a leaf nor a bud to be seen; snow-birds perched and twittered on the naked apple-boughs, and rifts of snow lay over the sleeping seed-souls of the hollyhocks and marigolds, keeping them just alive and no more, in a freezing, cold-blooded sort of way common to snow.
But if the garden outside looked like a relic of the olden time, the rooms inside seemed even more so. The “keeping-room” had been refurnished fifteen or twenty years before, but so well had it been kept, that there still hovered about it a painful air of newness. Over the stiff black hair-cloth sofa hung a funeral wreath in a shell frame, surrounded by the Sawyer family photographs—husbands and wives always taken in affectionate attitudes, that their relations might never be misunderstood. In a corner stood the mahogany “what-not” with its bead watch-cases, shells, and glass globes covering worsted-work flowers, together with more family pictures, daguerreotypes in black cases on the top shelf, and a marvelous blue china vase holding peacock feathers. Then there was a gorgeous “drawn in” rug before the fireplace, with impossible purple roses and pink leaves on its surface, and a marble-topped table holding a magnificent lamp with a glass fringe around it, and a large piece of red flannel floating in the kerosene.
All these glories the girls were allowed to view as a great favor granted at Bell's earnest request. They examined the parlor and the curiosities in the diningroom cupboard with awe-struck faces, though their sobriety was almost overcome at the sight of some of the works of art which Miss Miranda held up for their reverential admiration.
Upstairs there were rooms scarcely ever opened. The bedsteads were four-posted, and so high with many feather beds that their sleepy occupants must have ascended a step-ladder to get into them, or climbed up the posts hand over hand and dropped down into the downy depths. The counterpanes and comforters were quilted in wonderful patterns. There was the “wild-goose chase,” the “log cabin,” the “rocky mountain,” the “Irish plaid,” and a “charm quilt,” in twelve hundred pieces, no two of which were alike. The windows in the best chamber had white cotton curtains with elaborate fringes; the looking-glass was long and narrow with a yellow-painted frame, and a picture, in the upper half, of Napoleon crossing the Alps, the Alps in question being very pointed and of a sky-blue color, while Napoleon, in full-dress uniform, with never an outrider nor a guide, was galloping up and over the dizzy peaks on a skittish-looking pony.
These things nearly upset Jo's gravity, and she quite lost Miss Sawyer's favor by coughing down an irrepressible giggle when she was shown a painting of Burns and His Mary, done in oil by Miss Hannah, the oldest sister of the family, and long since dead. Miss Sawyer had no doubt that Hannah's genius was of the highest order, although the specimens of her skill handed down would astonish a modern artist. Burns and His Mary were seated on a bank belonging to a landscape certainly not Scottish; His Mary, with a pink tarlatan dress on, tucked to the waist; while a brook was seemingly purling over Burns' coat-tails spread out behind him on the bank. It was this peculiar detail which aroused Jo's mirth, as well it might, so that she could not trust herself to examine with the others Miss Hannah's last and finest effort—“Maidens welcoming General Washington in the streets of Alexandria.” The maidens, thirteen in number, were precisely alike in form and feature, all very smooth as to hair, long as to waist, short as to skirt, pointed as to toe, and carrying bouquets of exactly the same size and structure, tied up with green ribbon.
The tour of inspection finished, the girls sat down to chat over their tatting and crochet work, while the two ladies went out to prepare supper.
“My reputation is gone,” whispered Jo, solemnly. “To think that I should have laughed when I had been behaving so beautifully all the afternoon; but Robbie Burns was the last straw that broke the camel's back of my politeness; I couldn't have helped it if Miss Miranda had eaten me instead of frowning at me.”
“What do you think?” cried Lilia, jumping up impulsively and knocking down her chair in so doing, “I'm going to beard the lion in his den, and see if they won't let me help them get supper. Don't you want to come, Jo?”
The two girls ran across the long, cold hall, opened the kitchen door stealthily, and Jo asked in her sweetest tones, “Can't we set the table or help in any way, Miss Miranda?”
“No, I thank you, Josephine; there is nothing to do, or leastways you wouldn't know where things are, and wouldn't be any good. The Porter girl may come in if she wants to, but two of you would only clutter up the kitchen.”