The breakfast of the South-western American is usually a well appointed meal. It is eaten at a fixed hour, and table-d’hôte fashion—all the members of the family meeting at the table.
This habit is exacted by a sort of necessity, arising out of the nature of some of the viands peculiar to the country; many of which, as “Virginia biscuit,” “buckwheat cakes,” and “waffles,” are only relished coming fresh from, the fire: so that the hour when breakfast is being eaten in the dining-room, is that in which the cook is broiling her skin in the kitchen.
As the laggard, or late riser, may have to put up with cold biscuit, and no waffles or buckwheat cakes, there are few such on a Southern plantation.
Considering this custom, it was somewhat strange, that Henry Poindexter had not yet put in an appearance.
“Where can the boy be?” asked his father, for the fourth time, in that tone of mild conjecture that scarce calls for reply.
None was made by either of the other two guests at the table. Louise only gave expression to a similar conjecture. For all that, there was a strangeness in her glance—as in the tone of her voice—that might have been observed by one closely scrutinising her features.
It could scarce be caused by the absence of her brother from the breakfast-table? The circumstance was too trifling to call up an emotion; and clearly at that moment was she subject to one.
What was it? No one put the inquiry. Her father did not notice anything odd in her look. Much less Calhoun, who was himself markedly labouring to conceal some disagreeable thought under the guise of an assumed naïvété.
Ever since entering the room he had maintained a studied silence; keeping his eyes averted, instead of, according to his usual custom, constantly straying towards his cousin.
He sate nervously in his chair; and once or twice might have been seen to start, as a servant entered the room.