"Ready, cousin? I'll show you the way."
They entered the supper-room looking fresh and blooming as two roses.
Mr. Dinsmore assigned Mildred the seat of honor at his right hand, and complimented her on the becomingness of her attire.
She was the only guest, the children were all allowed to come to the table, and they were a merry family party, everybody rejoicing in being at home again after an absence of several months.
The table was loaded with delicacies, skillfully prepared; for old Phebe, the cook, was a real genius in the culinary art—the cloth was of finest damask, the service of rare china and costly silverware, and the attendance all that could be desired.
Pleading excessive fatigue, Mrs. Dinsmore retired to her own apartments immediately upon the conclusion of the meal.
"You look quite too fresh and bright to be thinking of bed yet," Mr. Dinsmore remarked, laying his hand affectionately on Mildred's shoulder; "will you come to the library with me?"
She gave a pleased assent and they were soon cosily seated on either side of the fire there, a table covered with books, papers and periodicals drawn up between them.
"How do you like this room?" Mr. Dinsmore asked.