"Still, as Aunt Judy says, it's a great responsibility."
"You're one of the Lord's lambs, mistis. He will provide."
He went out, and Ida caught up his last words, and through the dark nooks and reverberating galleries of the old house, sounded the refrain—
"His call we obey, like Abram of old,
Not knowing our way, but faith makes us bold,
For 'though we are strangers, we have a good guide,
And trust in all dangers, the Lord will provide!'"
She met her guests with a kiss, and a jingle of the key-basket, and seating them at table, poured out the coffee; refuting Mr. Dana's objection that his was too sweet, by the Irish lady's answer to a similar complaint from General Washington—"Shure, and if 'twas all sugar, 'twouldn't be too good for yer Honor!"—piled the children's plates with buttered cakes—rattling all the while of her dignities, possessions and "'sponsibility." After finding a clean grass plat for the children's playground, she challenged Mrs. Dana to a stroll over the house and garden. It was an old-fashioned family mansion, rambling and picturesque; some rooms wainscotted to the ceiling, and lighted by rows of narrow windows, with surprisingly small panes. These were chambers: the lower story, the parlour, dining-room, and the apartments appropriated to her mother and herself, were light, large, and finished in a more modern style. Mrs. Dana preferred the antique. The massive furniture suited them so well, and it was interesting to think of the generations they had known—what stories they would relate if the panelled oak could speak.
"With a little variation, they would tell one of all," replied Ida. "They were born, suffered, joyed and died!" And she thought how she had gone through all, except the last, within these walls. The garden was ploughed up. There was no comeliness in it, but it was less desolate than when overgrown with weed.
"The soil is fertile," said Mr. Grant. "We shall have vegetables worth showing this summer, Miss Ida. Mr. Dana sends his respects, and will you step into the parlour? we would like to consult you."
Ida composed her face into a Malvolio expression of solemnity and conceit: pompously apologised to Mrs. Dana, and obeyed. But the account books were shut, and her guardian was luxuriating in an arm-chair and a cigar.
"Mr. Grant and myself have been investigating and comparing accounts, Ida," he said; "and the result is highly creditable to him and those in his service. Without wearying you with particulars, I have set down the sums total here. You perceive that the crops have met the expenditures of the plantation; and each year, the net profits have surpassed those of the preceding—a proof that your land is constantly improving. This, as I said, is to be attributed to Mr. Grant's judicious management. Your servants are well fed and clothed, and the doctor's bill trifling in its amount. Praise is also due to Mr. Read. I approve entirely of the investments he has made of the funds, left after the necessary disbursements for expenses. Your money is safe and not idle. You were fortunate in your stewards, and assume the control of an unincumbered estate, under most favorable auspices."