Dick looked reproachfully at her. “And you never told me! I don’t think that’s fair. Am I not one of the family? Yes— Then I claim a relative’s privilege.”
Mrs. Brisbane beamed upon him. “You extravagant boy! That’s just why I did not tell you. I hope you are not too exhausted to enjoy a glass of eggnog?”
“What a question! You know I would walk miles to get a taste of your eggnog. There’s nothing like it, this side of Heaven.”
“Heaven is not usually associated with eggnog,” laughed Nancy Pelham, a pretty young girl of sixteen. “And Granny’s brew is apt to lead one in the opposite direction.”
“Tut! Child. As Pa once said, eggnog was invented especially for God’s po’ creatures in their moments of tribulation. It puts new heart in most everyone, even a po’ Yankee.”
Dick laughed. “You are a pretty good hater, Mrs. Brisbane,” he said, helping himself to the frothy beverage.
“I reckon I’ve got cause.” Mrs. Brisbane’s drawl was delicious. “An’ I’m from Charleston, Dick, don’t forget that. Why, one of my nieces never knew until she got to New York that ‘damn Yankee’ was two words.”
“Granny, Granny,” remonstrated Nancy. “Dick’s a good Northerner by birth, and we mustn’t wave the bloody shirt.”
“Nonsense,” said Dick, hastily. “I love to fight our battles over with Mrs. Brisbane. What a beautiful punch bowl that is?” he added, enthusiastically.
“Isn’t it? It was given to Granny’s father, General Pinckney, by Mr. Calhoun.”