The foster-sisters

by Lucy Ellen Guernsey

"Why, what is the matter with her quarters?" asked Mrs. Deborah, in a displeased tone. "Are they not grand enough for Mrs. Thorpe's apprentice? Perhaps she would like the state bedroom, where King Charles, the Martyr, slept on his way to Scotland!"

"On the contrary, it is the very grandeur of her lodgings that alarms her, I fancy," said Amabel, with ready tact. "She has been used to consider Mrs. Thorpe's attic as a luxurious bed-chamber. I assure you, aunt, I am a little scared myself at these splendid hangings."

Mrs. Deborah's brows relaxed, and she admitted that it was not unnatural the girl should be over-awed.

"The hangings are reckoned very uncommon, and very handsome," said she. "My great-grandfather brought them from Spain, whither he went about the business of the marriage of Prince Charles with the Infanta. This was your mother's room, Amabel, and here you were born. See, here is your mother's picture hanging on the wall. But you must not stay to look at it now, or we shall have Mrs. Tabitha in fits over her spoiled supper."

Mrs. Deborah led the way, and we followed her down the grand stairs and through a long corridor to the dining-room, a vast apartment with a fine carved ceiling and a buffet of silver plate and old china. Our supper-table was set in a recess where there was a fireplace, and which was partly enclosed by a great Indian screen.

Mrs. Chloe was already standing by the fire. The old butler and another elderly man in a blue livery were in waiting, and instantly proceeded to cover the table with steaming hot dishes—a cheerful sight to us travelers. Mrs. Deborah said grace, and we sat down with excellent appetites. Mrs. Philippa supped in her room, which was no draw-back to the cheerfulness of the party. We young ones were silent, of course, but Mrs. Chloe had already picked up various items of domestic news which she imparted to her sister, as that the brindled cat had three kittens, one of which was snow-white—a bit of news at which Mrs. Deborah looked rather grave—and I learned that the birth of a snow-white kitten was not considered a good omen. Old Roberts now and then put in his word informing his mistress with regard to the dogs, the horses, the sheep and cows.

"And what has happened in the village?" asked Mrs. Deborah. "I see Letty at the Lodge is about again."

"Oh yes, she was about and doing well, and old Ralph Tracy was also out of his bed, and had been to church; and it was said his son was going to marry the miller's daughter, which would be a grand match for him, to be sure, but rather a come-down—" so Mrs. Deborah opined—"for her."

At which Mrs. Chloe made some remark about true lovers, at which Mrs. Deborah smiled indulgently, and Roberts gave a little sniff.

I listened to the conversation with great interest, for—whether it be a fault of mine or not, I don't know—I do dearly love personal histories of all sorts. I discovered that Mrs. Deborah took a great interest in the villagers and their affairs, in which, as I surmised, she might sometimes interfere rather despotically.