The same train by which the old company was to go was to bring its successor.
The afternoon before his company left, Middleton rode up to Birdwood. He had given no one any notice, and he arrived unexpectedly. No one was in sight. The lawn appeared as deserted as if it were in the heart of a wilderness. The trees were as quiet as if Nature herself were asleep, and the sound of a dove cooing far down in the grove only intensified the quietude. Tying his horse, Middleton walked up through the grove. As he passed along he happened to cast his eyes in the direction of the little double building, which was off to one side at some distance back of the dwelling, and seeing the old mammy enter one of the doors he turned that way, thinking that she might come out, and he would ask if the family were at home. He stopped in front of the nearest door and looked in. It was the kitchen, and he was facing, not the mammy—who as a matter of fact, had entered another door—but Miss Cary herself. She was dressed in a white dress, and her skirt was turned back and pinned about her slender waist; her sleeves were rolled up, showing her round, white arms. She was busy with a bread-tray. Middleton would have drawn back, but Blair looked up and their eyes met. There was a moment of half embarrassment, and Middleton was about to draw back and apologize for his intrusion, but before he could do so she came forward, smiling.
“Won’t you come in?” she said, “or will you walk into the house?” The color had mounted to her cheeks, and the half mocking smile had still a little embarrassment in it; but Middleton thought she had never looked so charming. His heart gave a bound.
“Can you doubt what I will do?” He stepped over the high threshold. “Even if I be but scullion——”
“You must have been taking lessons from the General. Here—no one was ever allowed in here who would not work.” She gave him a rolling-pin, and he set to work with it industriously.
“This comes of your doing,” she said, still smiling. “I am the only cook left. Why don’t you detail me one? If you were worth a button you would.”
“How would I do?” hazarded Middleton. “I’m a pretty good cook.”
“Aunt Betty wouldn’t have let you come into the kitchen if you handled your rolling-pin that way. Let me show you.”
“Which is the best argument yet for the change of cooks,” said Middleton, guilefully holding the rolling-pin more and more awkwardly, for the very pleasure of being set right by her. “Now, don’t you think I am worth a button?”