Then came the solemn moment when the case was passed, and every member of the circle drew forth a spoon; then the still more awful instant when, hanging breathless upon Dosia’s movements, the family took the simultaneous sup of coffee.
Silence reigned until the spoons were collected, washed, and returned to the case, after which the meal proceeded with subdued cheer.
As Emily Scarborough sat there, another scene rose before her—the great old dining-room of Scarborough Castle, with its carved ceiling, splendid plate, and elaborate service. But she rejoiced in the fact that in log-house as in castle voices were gentle, manners kind, spirits simple and earnest. “Ah, the old blood runs virile and pure in whatever environment!” she said to herself with pride. But her next breath was a sigh. Was it that she herself should have no part in handing down such a heritage?
Bedtime came soon after all had returned to the first room, and Dosia said:
“Now, Cousin Emily, I have got four good, warm beds in the loft, every grain as nice as these. But they are purely for strangers and sojourners; I couldn’t have the heart to send blood-kin that far off from me to sleep. And I take it you feel the same, and would be better pleased to sleep right here with me and Edwin and the children, in the bosom of the family.”
“Certainly,” replied Miss Scarborough, repressing a smile. “Any arrangement that suits you, Dosia.”
Edwin considerately left the room during the undressing. Miss Scarborough and Emily had one bed, three of the little girls another, Dosia, Edwin, and the smallest child a third, while the two little boys occupied a pallet on the floor. There was general conversation for a while, and it was all very sociable. Miss Scarborough felt that she was indeed in the bosom of a family.
Days of large peace followed. With all the manifold, unceasing activities of the household,—everything eaten and worn was produced upon the land or manufactured in the house,—there was no stress or strain, hurry or worry. Dosia herself had saved up what she called a “good listening job” against Miss Scarborough’s visit, and while Emily and the smaller girls carded, reeled, knitted, or sewed, she herself, a picturesque figure in brown homespun and red yarn stockings, walked back and forth across the floor in that most ancient and graceful of all the occupations of women, spinning. At other times they ascended to the huge “loft,” where on a great loom Dosia wove awhile on winter clothing. Always the spirit of the home was perfect; the children hung reverently upon their mother’s every word, and the visitor noticed that Edwin never looked upon his wife without pride.
Dosia asked endless questions. “This great, unthinkable world of which I have seed nothing, I crave to l’arn about it, now I may,” she would say; and Miss Scarborough would tell tales, old and new, of the countries she had visited, the family listening spellbound.
As the two women talked and listened there day after day, one the typical woman of the past, with all her ancient duties and burdens, the other the most admired and brilliant product of the new day, it was the woman of the past whose eyes were clear and unclouded, whose step as she spun was buoyant, whose smile was assured and calm. In the other, with all her achievements and culture and beauty, a spring seemed to be broken, a profound sadness at unguarded moments seemed to brood. Only when little Emily brought knitting or sewing and sat at her kinswoman’s feet, or when the two started off for a walk together, did an expression of refreshment come into the beautiful, tired eyes.