She laughed in saying it, yet with such sincere regret of face and accent that I answered, without taking time to think:—
"I'm mighty sorry you haven't!" Catching myself up, I blundered on: "Not that you and Cousin 'Ratio are not company enough for me. But it seems a pity that, in this pretty place, with so many peaches and watermelons and flowers—and pigeons—and chickens—and all that—there are not any children to eat, and to play with them—and keep you company. I've heard mother say, 'Home wouldn't be Home without the babies.'"
"Your mother is right, child! Your mother is right!"
The words seemed to stick in her throat, and to scrape it as she got them out. Then, to my horror, she sank into a rocking-chair, and, throwing her hands over her face, began to cry, with queer little squeals between the sobs that shook her all over.
A Tea-party in the Summer-House. "Dovey appeared with a large saucer of peaches and cream."
Malviny, her mulatto maid, ran to her with a bottle of hartshorn, and Cousin 'Ratio knelt upon the floor by her and put his arm about her, and fanned her with a turkey-tail fan, and another colored woman rushed off to the kitchen, and was back in a jiffy with a bunch of feathers all on fire, and making a dreadful smell, and stuck them under her mistress's nose. I backed to the door with a wild notion of getting out of the way, and running back home, yet could not tear myself away from the unusual scene.
As soon as Cousin Nancy could speak, she laughed at sight of my face,—the tears still dripping all the way to her chin,—and held out her arms:—
"Poor little lammie! did I frighten the life out of her? You mustn't mind my nervous turns, dear. They don't mean anything."
"I was afraid I had said something I oughtn't to," I faltered, on the verge of tears. "I'm sorry if I did!"