For Dicey it had been a long and weary day. Her father’s last words were: “Let no one know where we have ridden, Dicey, for in such days as these it is best to keep one’s own counsel, and you know, little daughter, that most of our neighbours belong to the King’s party.”
And Dicey had remembered, even though Eliza Gordon had come over that afternoon with her sewing, and the two girls had worked on their new kerchiefs, fagoting and stitching and edging them with some Mignonette lace which Eliza’s mother had brought from Charleston when last she went to town. Such silence was hard enough for Dicey, who was used to tell whatever thoughts came into her mind, particularly to Eliza, who was her very “dearest friend.”
When Mr. Langston had dismounted, and Dicey had taken one look into his face, she cried out,—
“Oh, father, is the news bad? I can see by your face it is none of the best. Is that cruel King over seas never going to stop his taxing? Shall I throw out the tea?”
“S’hush, Dicey, my girl. Remember what I told you this morning. There are none others about us who think as we do, and it behoves us to be careful both in what we say and do.”
As he spoke, he drew Dicey into the house, and Henry followed, the horses having been taken to the stables by one of the slaves, who, like Dicey, had heard the sound of the riders and come forward to meet them. Once within doors Dicey forgot for a moment her eagerness for news, and ran forward to stir up the fire which had fallen low while she mused, and to light the candle which hung from its iron bracket on the back of her father’s chair. She set the kettle on the arm of the crane to boil, and put close at her father’s elbow his long clay pipe and box of tobacco, then brought out a tray with glasses and a generous bowl, into which she put spices and lemon, together with sugar and a measure of wine which she poured from a jug which was fashioned in the form of a fat old man with a very red face and a blue coat.
Kneeling on the hearth, she watched to see the steam come from the kettle’s nose, and as it seemed o’er long to her impatient spirit, she cast another billet of wood upon the dancing flames.
“Come, come, little daughter,” her father said, “Henry and I have ridden far, and your impatience does but delay matters. In truth, I am so weary and chilled that I am thirsting for the spiced wine, which your treatment of the fire does but delay.”
Now Dicey seized the poker and hastily endeavoured to make up for her error in putting on the new log, the only effect of her efforts being to make Henry laugh and take the poker from her hand, while he said,—
“Keep the little patriot quiet, father, since, if a watched pot never boils, this one is like to stay ever simmering.”