One morning when the habitué had sought his accustomed post of observation, a young lady presented herself at the door, and seeing me, was about to retreat with something about its being very early for a visit, when Mrs. Thompson recalled her with a "Come in, my dear, and let me have the pleasure of presenting you to Colonel Lunettes, the friend of whom you have heard us all speak so often."
After the usual courtesies, this lovely earth-angel, with some hesitation, and drawing her chair nearer her friend, explained her errand.
Making a little screen of a cherub-head, as was my wont, I regaled myself unobserved, with the music of sweet voices and the study of pretty faces. I caught—"my old drawing-teacher"—"her husband was a brute in their best days"—"this long, hard winter"—"not even a carpet"—"the poor child on a wooden-bottomed chair, with a little dirty pillow behind her head, and so emaciated!"—here there was a very perceptible quiver in the low tones, followed by a little choking sort of pause.
"I am really grateful to you for coming—I have been unusually occupied lately by the baby's illness and other duties—the weather has given me more than one twinge of conscience"—this accompanied by a quiet transfer from one purse to another, and then I heard, as the two ladies bent over the crib of the sleeping infant—"is there a stout boy among the children? There are the barrels of pork and beef, always ready in the cellar—each good and wholesome of their kind—husband always has them brought from the farm on purpose to give away; and we have abundance of fine potatoes—John could not readily find the place, and really, just now, he is pretty busy; still, perhaps, they have the natural pride of better days—if you think it well, I will try to send"—the gentle ministers of mercy left the room together, and I heard no more.
Presently, the youth of whom I have before spoken, still at home enjoying his holiday's college vacation, joined me, and, between the exercises of an
entertaining gymnastic exhibition, in which he and Willie were the chief performers, regaled me with humorous sketches of college adventures, anecdotes of the professors, etc., in the details of some of which I think he had his quiet old nurse in his mind's eye, as well as his father's guest.
When Mrs. Thompson resumed her accustomed seat at her business-table, as it might well be called, my agreeable young entertainer slid away from the group about the fire, and was soon snugged down, in his own favorite fashion, with his legs comfortably crossed over the top of the chair sustaining mammy's implements, cheek-by-jowl with the venerable genius of the sewing-basket, dipping into a newspaper, and chatting, at intervals, with his humble friend. Once in a while I caught a sentence like this:
"I say, mammy, you can't begin to think how glad I am you are getting down to my shirts! Such work as they make washing for a fellow at college! My black washerwoman (and such a beauty as she is—such a little rosebud of a mouth!) pretends to fasten the loose buttons—now, there is a specimen of her performances—just look! The real truth is, Mrs. Welch, that mother and you are the only women I know of who can sew on a button worth a pin—just the only two, by George! Now, there's Pierre de Carradeaux, one of our young fellows down there—his friends all live in Hayti, or some other unknown and uninhabitable region, you know, over the sea—I wish you could see his clothes! The way they mend at the tailors! But the darns in his stockings are the funniest. He rooms with me, and so I hear him talking to himself, in French. I am afraid he swears, sometimes—but the way he fares is enough to make a saint swear!" And then followed a detail that caused mammy to wipe her eyes in sympathy with this strange phase of human woe, in alternation with an occasional exclamation of amusement—like, "You'll surely be the death of me, Master Sidney!" apparently forced spasmodically from her lips, despite the self-imposed taciturnity which, I shrewdly suspected, my presence created.
primitive, may I read you this anecdote? Colonel, will you allow me?"—a respectful glance at the book in my hand. And squeezing himself in from behind, by some utterly inconceivable india-rubber pliancy, between the fire and his much-enduring parent, the tall form of the stripling slowly subsided until I could discern nothing but a mass of wavy black hair reposing amid the soft folds of his mother's morning-gown, and a bit of his newspaper. Thus disposed, apparently to the entire satisfaction of all concerned, he read: