The Lightcaps were at supper; father and eldest son, each of whom stood six feet in his stockings, with shirt sleeves rolled up above their elbows, displaying brown sinewy arms; the mother in a faded calico, grizzled hair drawn straight back from a dull, careworn face and gathered into a little knot behind in which was stuck a yellow horn comb; years of incessant toil and frequent exposure to sun and wind had not improved a naturally dark, rough skin, and there was no attempt at adornment in her attire, not a collar or a ruffle to cover up the unsightliness of the yellow, wrinkled neck.
Rhoda Jane, the eldest daughter, seated at her father's right hand, was a fac-simile of what the mother had been in her girlhood, with perhaps an added touch of intelligence and a somewhat more bold and forward manner.
There were besides several younger children of both sexes, quite ordinary looking creatures and just now wholly taken up with the business in hand;—vieing with each other in the amount of bread and butter and molasses, fried potatoes and fried pork they could devour in a given space of time.
"Some new comers in town, mother," remarked Mr. Lightcap, helping himself to a second slice of pork. "The keelboat Mary Ann come up the river with a lot of travellers."
"Who, father? somebody that's going to stay?"
"Yes; that lawyer we heerd was comin', you know. What's his name?"
"Keith," said Rhoda Jane, "I heerd Miss Prior tell Damaris Drybread last Sunday after meetin'. And so they've come, hev they?"
"Yes; I had occasion to go up street a bit ago, and saw George Ward takin' 'em to the Union Hotel; the man hisself and two or three wimmin folks and a lot of young uns."
"Damaris was wishing there'd be some children;" remarked Rhoda Jane, "she wants more scholars."