“He—he’s coming.”
“With the dog?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Aunty Rose seemed to take some time to digest this; but she made no further comment in regard to the matter, only saying:
“Let us go into the house, Car’lyn May. You must take off your hat and bathe your face and hands.”
Carolyn May Cameron followed the stately figure of Aunty Rose Kennedy into the blue-and-white kitchen of the old house, with something of the feelings of a culprit on the way to the block.
Such a big kitchen as it was! The little girl thought it must be almost as big as their whole apartment in Harlem “put together”—and they had a tiny private hall, too. There was a great, deep, enameled sink, with hot and cold water faucets over it, and a big, shiny, corrugated drainboard beside it. Evidently Aunty Rose was not dependent upon the old well in the yard for her water supply.
There was a shining copper boiler, and a great range, and set tubs of stone, and a big dresser, and a kitchen cabinet. The walls were covered with tile paper and the floor with linoleum, and there were plenty of braided mats about to make the room seem livable. At the cooler end of the kitchen the supper table was already set—for three.
“Why,” mused the little girl, “she must have suspected me,” and a warmer glow filtered into the heart of the “suspected” guest.
It was not till afterwards that she realised that the extra plate on the table was a part of the old-time Quaker creed—the service for the Unknown Guest.