“Yes, ’tis Mildred Hawkins,” she said; and she cast a furtive glance backward through the wide hall, toward the sitting-room, where the Judge sat, dozing in his willow chair.
“Was it this door, under these steps, that I was left?” asked Mildred in a whisper, but before Oliver could reply Rachel had advanced to meet them.
Mildred was not afraid of her, for the good-natured negress had been kind to her in various ways, and going boldly forward, she said:
“I’ve come to see Judge Howell. Is he at home?”
Rachel looked aghast, and Mildred, thinking she would not state her principal reason for wishing to see him, continued, “I want to see the basket I was brought here in and everything.”
“Do you know then? Who told you?” and Rachel looked inquiringly at Oliver, who answered: “Yes, she knows. They told her at school.”
The fact that she knew gave her, in Rachel’s estimation, some right to come, and motioning her to be very cautious, she said: “The basket is up in the garret. Come still, so as not to wake up the Judge,” and taking off her own shoes by way of example, she led the way through the hall, followed by Oliver and Mildred, the latter of whom could not forbear pausing to look in at the room where the Judge sat unconsciously nodding at her.
“Come away,” whispered Oliver, but Mildred would not move, and she stood gazing at the Judge as if he had been a caged lion.
Just then Finis, who being really the last and youngest, was a spoiled child, yelled lustily for his mother. It was hazardous not to go at his bidding, and telling the children to stand still till she returned, Rachel hurried away.
“Now then,” said Mildred, spying the drawing-room door ajar, “we’ll have a good time by ourselves,” and taking Oliver’s hand, she walked boldly into the parlor, where the family portraits were hanging.