Ruth Hall, by "Fanny Fern" (NY: Mason Brothers, 1854)
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CHAPTER IV.
"Good morning, Ruth; Mrs. Hall I suppose I should call you, only that I can't get used to being shoved one side quite so suddenly," said the old lady, with a faint attempt at a laugh.
"Oh, pray don't say Mrs. Hall to me," said Ruth, handing her a chair; "call me any name that best pleases you; I shall be quite satisfied."
"I suppose you feel quite lonesome when Harry is away, attending to business, and as if you hardly knew what to do with yourself; don't you?"
"Oh, no," said Ruth, with a glad smile, "not at all. I was just thinking whether I was not glad to have him gone a little while, so that I could sit down and think how much I love him."
The old lady moved uneasily in her chair. "I suppose you understand all about housekeeping, Ruth?"
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Ruth blushed. "No," said she, "I have but just returned from boarding-school. I asked Harry to wait till I had learned house-keeping matters. But he was not willing."
The old lady untied her cap-strings, and patted the floor restlessly with her foot.
"It is a great pity you were not brought up properly," said she. "I learned all that a girl should learn, before I married. Harry has his fortune yet to make, you know. Young people, now-a-days, seem to think that money comes in showers, whenever it is wanted; that's a mistake; a penny at a time--that 's the way we got ours; that 's the way Harry and you will have to get yours. Harry has been brought up sensibly. He has been taught economy; he is, like me, naturally of a very generous turn; he will occasionally offer you pin-money. In those cases, it will be best for you to pass it over to me to keep; of course you can always have it again, by telling me how you wish to spend it. I would advise you, too, to lay by all your handsome clothes. As to the silk stockings you were married in, of course you will never be so extravagant as to wear them again. I never had a pair of silk stockings in my life; they have a very silly, frivolous look. Do you know how to iron, Ruth?"
"Yes," said Ruth; "I have sometimes clear-starched my own muslins and laces."
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"Glad to hear it; did you ever seat a pair of pantaloons?"
"No," said Ruth, repressing a laugh, and yet half inclined to cry; "you forget that I am just home from boarding-school."
"Can you make bread? When I say bread I mean bread--old fashioned, yeast riz bread; none of your sal-soda, salæratus, sal-volatile poisonous mixtures, that must be eaten as quick as baked, lest it should dry up; yeast bread--do you know how to make it?"
"No," said Ruth, with a growing sense of her utter good-for-nothingness; "people in the city always buy baker's bread; my father did."
"Your father! land's sake, child, you must n't quote your father now you 're married; you have n't any father."
I never had, thought Ruth.
"To be sure; what does the Bible say? 'Forsaking father and mother, cleave to your wife,' (or husband, which amounts to the same thing, I take it;) and speaking of that, I hope you won't be always running home, or running anywhere in fact. Wives should be keepers at home. Ruth," continued the old lady after a short pause, "do you know I should like your looks better, if you did n't curl your hair?"
"I don't curl it," said Ruth, "it curls naturally."
"That 's a pity," said the old lady, "you should
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avoid everything that looks frivolous; you must try and pomatum it down. And Ruth, if you should feel the need of exercise, don't gad in the streets. Remember there is nothing like a broom and a dust-pan to make the blood circulate."
"You keep a rag bag, I suppose," said the old lady; "many 's the glass dish I've peddled away my scissors-clippings for. 'Waste not, want not.' I've got that framed somewhere. I'll hunt it up, and put it on your wall. It won't do you any harm to read it now and then."
"I hope," continued the old lady, "that you don't read novels and such trash. I have a very select little library, when you feel inclined to read, consisting of a treatise on 'The Complaints of Women,' an excellent sermon on Predestination, by our old minister, Dr. Diggs, and Seven Reasons why John Rogers, the martyr, must have had ten children instead of nine (as is generally supposed); any time that you stand in need of rational reading come to me;" and the old lady, smoothing a wrinkle in her black silk apron, took a dignified leave.
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CHAPTER V.
Poor Ruth! her sky so soon overcast! As the door closed on the prim, retreating figure of her mother-in-law, she burst into tears. But she was too sensible a girl to weep long. She wiped her eyes, and began to consider what was to be done. It would never do to complain to Harry--dear Harry. He would have to take sides; oh no, that would never do; she could never complain to him of his own mother. But why did he bring them together? knowing, as he must have known, how little likely they were to assimilate. This thought she smothered quickly, but not before it had given birth to a sigh, close upon the heels of which love framed this apology: It was so long since Harry had lived under the same roof with his mother he had probably forgotten her eccentricities; and then she was so dotingly fond of him, that probably no points of collision ever came up between the two.
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In the course of an hour, what with cold bathing and philosophy, Ruth's eyes and equanimity were placed beyond the suspicion even of a newly-made husband, and when she held up her lips to him so temptingly, on his return, he little dreamed of the self conquest she had so tearfully achieved for his sake.
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CHAPTER VI.
Harry's father began life on a farm in Vermont. Between handling ploughs, hoes, and harrows, he had managed to pick up sufficient knowledge to establish himself as a country doctor; well contented to ride six miles on horseback of a stormy night, to extract a tooth for some distracted wretch, for twenty-five cents. Naturally loquacious, and equally fond of administering jalap and gossip, he soon became a great favorite with the "women folks," which every aspiring Esculapius, who reads this, knows to be half the battle. They soon began to trust him, not only in drawing teeth, but in cases involving the increase of the village census. Several successes in this line, which he took no pains to conceal, put him behind a gig of his own, and enabled his practice to overtake his fame as far as the next village.
Like many other persons, who revolve all their life
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in a peck measure, the doctor's views of the world in general, and its denizens in particular, were somewhat circumscribed. Added to this, he was as persevering as a fly in the dog-days, and as immovable as the old rusty weather-cock on the village meeting-house, which for twenty years had never been blown about by any whisking wind of doctrine. "When he opened his mouth, no dog must bark;" and any dissent from his opinion, however circumspectly worded, he considered a personal insult. As his wife entertained the same liberal views, occasional conjugal collisions, on this narrow track, were the consequence; the interest of which was intensified by each reminding the other of their Calvinistic church obligations to keep the peace. They had, however, one common ground of undisputed territory--their "Son Harry," who was as infallible as the Pope, and (until he got married) never did a foolish thing since he was born. On this last point, their "Son Harry" did not exactly agree with them, as he considered it decidedly the most delightful negotiation he had ever made, and one which he could not even think of without a sudden acceleration of pulse.
Time wore on, the young couple occupying their own suite of apartments, while the old people kept house. The doctor, who had saved enough to lay his saddle-bags with his medical books on the shelf, busied
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himself after he had been to market in the morning, in speculating on what Ruth was about, or in peeping over the balustrade, to see who called when the bell rang; or, in counting the wood-pile, to see how many sticks the cook had taken to make the pot boil for dinner. The second girl (a supernumerary of the bridal week) had long since been dismissed; and the doctor and his wife spent their evenings with the cook, to save the expense of burning an extra lamp. Betty soon began to consider herself one of the family, and surprised Ruth one day by modestly requesting the loan of her bridal veil "to wear to a little party;" not to speak of sundry naps to which she treated herself in Ruth's absence, in her damask rocking chair, which was redolent, for some time after, of a strong odor of dish-water.
Still, Ruth kept her wise little mouth shut; moving, amid these discordant elements, as if she were deaf dumb, and blind.
Oh, love! that thy silken reins could so curb the spirit and bridle the tongue, that thy uplifted finger of warning could calm that bounding pulse, still that throbbing heart, and send those rebellious tears, unnoticed, back to their source.
Ah! could we lay bare the secret history of many a wife's heart, what martyrs would be found, over whose uncomplaining lips the grave sets its unbroken seal of silence.
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But was Harry blind and deaf? Had the bride-groom of a few months grown careless and unobservant? Was he, to whom every hair of that sunny head was dear, blind to the inward struggles, marked only by fits of feverish gayety? Did he never see the sudden ruse to hide the tell-tale blush, or starting tear? Did it escape his notice, that Ruth would start, like a guilty thing, if a sudden impulse of tenderness betrayed her into laying her hand upon his forehead, or leaning her head upon his shoulder, or throwing her arms about his neck, when the jealous mother was by? Did not his soul bend the silent knee of homage to that youthful self-control that could repress its own warm emotions, and stifle its own sorrows, lest he should know a heart-pang?
Yes; Ruth read it in the magnetic glance of the loving eye as it lingeringly rested on her, and in the low, thrilling tone of the whispered, "God bless you, my wife;" and many an hour, when alone in his counting room, was Harry, forgetful of business, revolving plans for a separate home for himself and Ruth.
This was rendered every day more necessary, by the increased encroachments of the old people, who insisted that no visitors should remain in the house after the old-fashioned hour of nine; at which time the fire should be taken apart, the chairs set up, the lights extinguished, and a solemn silence brood until the next morning's
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cock-crowing. It was also suggested to the young couple, that the wear and tear of the front entry carpet might be saved by their entering the house by the back gate, instead of the front door.
Meals were very solemn occasions; the old people frowning, at such times, on all attempts at conversation, save when the doctor narrated the market prices he paid for each article of food upon the table. And so time wore on. The old couple, like two scathed trees, dry, harsh, and uninviting, presenting only rough surfaces to the clinging ivy, which fain would clothe with brightest verdure their leafless branches.
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CHAPTER VII.
Hark! to that tiny wail! Ruth knows that most blessed of all hours. Ruth is a mother! Joy to thee, Ruth! Another outlet for thy womanly heart; a mirror, in which thy smiles and tears shall he reflected back; a fair page, on which thou, God-commissioned, mayst write what thou wilt; a heart that will throb back to thine, love for love.
But Ruth thinks not of all this now, as she lies pale and motionless upon the pillow, while Harry's grateful tears bedew his first-born's face. She cannot even welcome the little stranger. Harry thought her dear to him before; but now, as she lies there, so like death's counterpart, a whole life of devotion would seem too little to prove his appreciation of all her sacrifices.
The advent of the little stranger was viewed through very different spectacles by different members of the family. The doctor regarded it as a little automaton.
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for pleasant Æsculapian experiments in his idle hours; the old lady viewed it as another barrier between herself and Harry, and another tie to cement his already too strong attachment for Ruth; and Betty groaned, when she thought of the puny interloper, in connection with washing and ironing days; and had already made up her mind that the first time its nurse used her new saucepan to make gruel, she would strike for higher wages.
Poor, little, unconscious "Daisy," with thy velvet cheek nestled up to as velvet a bosom, sleep on; thou art too near heaven to know a taint of earth.
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CHAPTER VIII.
Ruth's nurse, Mrs. Jiff, was fat, elephantine, and unctuous. Nursing agreed with her. She had "tasted" too many bowls of wine-whey on the stairs, tipped up too many bottles of porter in the closet, slid down too many slippery oysters before handing them to "her lady," not to do credit to her pantry devotions. Mrs. Jiff wore an uncommonly stiff gingham gown, which sounded, every time she moved, like the rustle of a footfall among the withered leaves of autumn. Her shoes were new, thick, and creaky, and she had a wheezy, dilapidated-bellowsy way of breathing, consequent upon the consumption of the above-mentioned port and oysters, which was intensely crucifying to a sick ear.
Mrs. Jiff always "forgot to bring" her own comb and hair brush. She had a way, too, of opening drawers and closets "by mistake," thereby throwing her helpless victim into a state of profuse perspiration. Then she would go to sleep between the andirons,
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with the new baby on the edge of her knee, in alarming proximity to the coals; would take a pinch of snuff over the bowl of gruel in the corner, and knock down the shovel, poker, and tongs, every time she went near the fire; whispering--sh--sh--sh--at the top of her lungs, as she glanced in the direction of the bed, as if its demented occupant were the guilty cause of the accident.
Mrs. Jiff had not nursed five-and-twenty years for nothing. She particularly affected taking care of young mothers, with their first babies; knowing very well that her chain shortened, with every after addition to maternal experience she considered herself, therefore, quite lucky in being called upon to superintend little Daisy's advent.
It did occasionally cross Ruth's mind as she lay, almost fainting with exhaustion, on the pillow, while the ravenous little Daisy cried, "give, give," whether it took Mrs. Jiff two hours to make one cup of tea, and brown one slice of toast; Mrs. Jiff solacing herself, meanwhile, over an omelette in the kitchen, with Betty, and pouring into her ready ears whole histories of "gen'lemen as was n't gen'lemen, whose ladies she nursed," and how nobody but herself knew how late they did come home when their wives were sick, though, to be sure, she 'd scorn to tell of it!" Sometimes, also, Ruth innocently wondered if it was necessary for the nurse to
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occupy the same bed with "her lady;" particularly when her circumference was as Behemoth-ish, and her nose as musical as Mrs. Jiff's; and whether there would be any impropriety in her asking her to take the babe and keep it quiet part of the night, that she might occasionally get a nap. Sometimes, too, she considered the feasibility of requesting Mrs. Jiff not to select the time when she (Ruth) was sipping her chocolate, to comb out her "false front," and polish up her artificial teeth; and sometimes she marveled why, when Mrs. Jiff paid such endless visits to the kitchen, she was always as fixed as the North Star, whenever dear Harry came in to her chamber to have a conjugal chat with her.
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CHAPTER IX.
"How do you do this morning, Ruth?" the old lady, lowering herself gradually into a softly-cushioned arm chair. "How your sickness has altered you! You look like a ghost? I should n't wonder if you lost all your hair: it is no uncommon thing in sickness; or your teeth either. How 's the baby? She don't favor our side of the house at all. She is quite a plain child, in fact. Has she any symptoms, yet, of a sore mouth? I hope not, because she will communicate it to your breast, and then you 'll have a time of it. I knew a poor, feeble thing once, who died of it. Of course, you intend, when Mrs. Jiff leaves, to take care of the baby yourself; a nursery girl would be very expensive."
"I believe Harry has already engaged one," said Ruth.
"I don't think he has," said the old lady, sitting up very straight, "because it was oly this morning that
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the doctor and I figured up the expense it would be to you, and we unanimously came to the conclusion to tell Harry that you 'd better take care of the child yourself. I always took care of my babies. You ought n't to have mentioned a nursery girl, at all, to Harry."
"He proposed it himself," replied Ruth; "he said I was too feeble to have the care of the child."
"Pooh! pshaw! stuff! no such thing. You are well enough, or will be, before long. Now, there 's a girl's board to begin with. Servant girls eat like boa-constrictors. Then, there's the soap and oil she 'll waste;--oh, the thing is n't to be thought of; it is perfectly ruinous. If you had n't made a fool of Harry, he never could have dreamed of it. You ought to have sense enough to check him, when he would go into such extravagances for you, but some people have n't any sense. Where would all the sugar, and starch, and soap, go to, I'd like to know, if we were to have a second girl in the house? How long would the wood-pile, or pitch-kindlings, or our new copper-boiler last? And who is to keep the back gate bolted, with such a chit flying in and out?"
"Will you please hand me that camphor bottle?" said Ruth, laying her hand upon her throbbing forehead.
"How 's my little snow-drop today?" said Harry, entering Ruth's room as his mother swept out; "what
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ails your eyes, Ruth?" said her husband, removing the little hands which hid them.
"A sudden pain," said Ruth, laughing gayly; "it has gone now; the camphor was too strong."
Good Ruth! brave Ruth! Was Harry deceived? Something ails his eyes, now; but Ruth has too much tact to notice it.
Oh Love! thou skillful teacher! learned beyond all the wisdom of the schools.
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CHAPTER X.
"You will be happy here, dear Ruth," said Harry; "you will be your own mistress."
Ruth danced about, from room to room, with the careless glee of a happy child, quite forgetful that she was a wife and a mother; quite unable to repress the flow of spirits consequent upon her new-found freedom.
Ruth's new house was about five miles from the city. The approach to it was through a lovely winding lane, a little off the main road, skirted on either side by a thick grove of linden and elms, where the wild grape-vine leaped, clinging from branch to branch, festooning its ample clusters in prodigal profusion of fruitage, and forming a dense shade, impervious to the most garish noon-day heat; while beneath, the wild brier-rose unfolded its perfumed leaves in the hedges, till the bees and humming-birds went reeling away, with their honeyed treasures.
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You can scarce see the house, for the drooping elms, half a century old, whose long branches, at every windgust, swept across the velvet lawn. The house is very old, but Ruth says, "All the better for that." Little patches of moss tuft the sloping roof, and swallows and martens twitter round the old chimney. It has nice old-fashioned beams, running across the ceiling, which threaten to bump Harry's curly head. The doorways, too, are low, with honeysuckle, red and white, wreathed around the porches; and back of the house there is a high hill (which Ruth says must be terraced off for a garden), surmounted by a gray rock, crowned by a tumble-down old summer-house, where you have as fine a prospect of hill and valley, rock and river, as ever a sunset flooded with rainbow tints.
It was blessed to see the love-light in Ruth's gentle eyes; to see the rose chase the lily from her cheek; to see the old spring come back to her step; to follow her from room to room, while she draped the pretty white curtains, and beautified, unconsciously, everything her fingers touched.
She could rive an order without having it countermanded; she could kiss little Daisy, without being called "silly;" she could pull out her comb, and let her curls flow about her face, without being considered "frivolous;" and, better than all, she could fly into her husband's arms, when he came home, and kiss him, with-
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out feeling that she had broken any penal statute. Yes; she was free as the golden orioles, whose hanging nests swayed to and fro amid the glossy green leaves beneath her window.
But not as thoughtless.
Ruth had a strong, earnest nature; she could not look upon this wealth of sea, sky, leaf, bud, and blossom; she could not listen to the little birds, nor inhale the perfumed breath of morning, without a filling eye and brimming heart, to the bounteous Giver. Should she revel in all this loveliness,--should her heart be filled to its fullest capacity for earthly happiness, and no grateful incense go up from its altar to Heaven?
And the babe? Its wondering eyes had already begun to seek its mother's; its little lip to quiver at a harsh or discordant sound. An unpracticed hand must sweep that harp of a thousand strings; trembling fingers must inscribe, indelibly, on that blank page, characters to be read by the light of eternity: the maternal eye must never sleep at its post, lest the enemy rifle the casket of its gems. And so, by her child's cradle, Ruth first learned to pray. The weight her slender shoulders could not bear, she rolled at the foot of the Cross; and, with the baptism of holy tears, mother and child were consecrated.
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CHAPTER XI.
Time flew on; seasons came and went; and still peace brooded, like a dove, under the roof of Harry and Ruth. Each bright summer morning, Ruth and the little Daisy, (who already partook of her mother's love for nature,) rambled, hand in hand, through the woods and fields, with a wholesome disregard of those city bug-bears, sun, dew, bogs, fences, briers, and cattle. Wherever a flower opened its blue eye in the rock cleft; wherever the little stream ran, babbling and sparkling through the emerald meadow; where the golden moss piled up its velvet cushion in the cool woods; where the pretty clematis threw the graceful arms of youth round the gnarled trunk of decay; where the bearded grain, swaying to and fro, tempted to its death the reaper; where the red and white clover dotted the meadow grass; or where, in the damp marsh, the whip-poor-will moaned, and the crimson lobelia nodded its regal crown;
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or where the valley smiled in its beauty 'neath the lofty hills, nestling 'mid its foliage the snow-white cottages; or where the cattle dozed under the broad, green branches, or bent to the glassy lake to drink; or where on the breezy hill-tops, the voices of childhood came up, sweet and clear, as the far-off hymning of angels,--there, Ruth and her soul's child loved to linger.
It was beautiful, yet fearful, to mark the kindling eye of the child; to see the delicate flush come and go on her marble cheek, and to feel the silent pressure of her little hand, when this alone could tell the rapture she had no words to express.
Ah, Ruth! gaze not so dotingly on those earnest eyes[.] Know'st thou not,
Will soonest go to rest?
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CHAPTER XII.
"Well," said the doctor, taking his spectacles from his nose, and folding them up carefully in their leathern case; "I hope you 'll be easy, Mis. Hall, now that we 've toted out here, bag and baggage, to please you, when I supposed I was settled for the rest of my life."
"Fathers can't be expected to have as much natural affection, or to be as self-sacrificing as mothers," said the old lady. "Of course, it was some trouble to move out here; but, for Harry's sake, I was willing to do it. What does Ruth know about house-keeping, I 'd like to know ? A pretty muss she 'll make of it, if I'm not around to oversee things."
"It strikes me," retorted the doctor, "that you won't get any thanks for it--from one side of the house, at least. Ruth never says anything when you vex her, but there 's a look in her eye which--well, Mis. Hall, it tells the whole story."
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"I 've seen it," said the old lady, while her very cap-strings fluttered with indignation, "and it has provoked me a thousand times more than if she had thrown a brick-bat at my head. That girl is no fool, doctor. She knows very well what she is about: but diamond cut diamond, I say. Doctor, doctor, there are the hens in the garden. I want that garden kept nice. I suppose Ruth thinks that nobody can have flowers but herself. Wait till my china-asters and sweet peas come up. I'm going over to-day to take a peep round her house; I wonder what it looks like? Stuck full of gimcracks, of all sorts, I'll warrant. Well, I shan't furnish my best parlor till I see what she has got. I've laid by a little money, and-"
"Better give it to the missionaries, Mis. Hall," growled the doctor; "I tell you Ruth don't care a pin what you have in your parlor."
"Don't you believe it," said the old lady.
"Well, anyhow," muttered the doctor, "you can't get the upper hand of her in that line; i. e., if she has a mind that you shall not. Harry is doing a very good business; and you know very well, it is no use to try to blind your eyes to it, that if she wanted Queen Victoria's scepter, he 'd manage to get it for her."
"That's more than I can say of you," exclaimed the old lady, fanning herself violently, "for all that I used to mend your old saddle-bags, and once made, with my
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own hands, a pair of leather small-clothes to ride horse-back in. Forty years, doctor, I've spent in your service. I don't look much as I did when you married me. I was said then to have 'woman's seven beauties,' including the 'dimple in the chin,['] which I see still remains;" and the old lady pointed to a slight indentation in her wrinkled face. "I might have had him that was Squire Smith, or Pete Packer, or Jim Jessup. There was n't one of 'em who had not rather do the chores on our farm, than on any other in the village.
"Pooh, pooh," said the doctor, "don't be an old fool; that was because your father kept good cider."
Mrs. Hall's cap-strings were seen flying the next minute through the sitting-room door; and the doctor was heard to mutter, as she banged the door behind her, "that tells the whole story!"
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CHAPTER XIII.
"A summer house, hey!" said the old lady, as with stealthy, cat-like steps, she crossed a small piece of woods, between her house and Ruth's; "a summer house! that 's the way the money goes, is it? What have we here? a book;" (picking up a volume which lay half hidden in the moss at her feet;) "poetry, I declare! the most frivolous of all reading; all pencil marked;--and here 's something in Ruth's own hand-writing--that's poetry, too: worse and worse."
"Well, we 'll see how the kitchen of this poetess looks. I will go into the house the back way, and take them by surprise; that 's the way to find people out. None of your company faces for me." And the old lady peered curiously through her spectacles, on either side, as she passed along towards the kitchen door, and exclaimed, as her eye fell on the shining row, "six milkpans!--wonder if they buy their milk, or keep a cow. If they buy it, it
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must cost them something; if they keep a cow. I 've [no] question the milk is half wasted."
The old lady passed her skinny forefinger across one of the pans, examining her finger very minutely after the operation; and then applied the tip of her nose to the interior of it. There was no fault to be found with that milkpan, if it was Ruth's; so, scrutinizing two or three dish towels, which were hanging on a line to dry, she stepped cautiously up to the kitchen door. A tidy, respectable-looking black woman met her on the threshold; her woolly locks bound with a gay-striped bandanna, and her ebony face shining with irresistible good humor.
"Is Ruth in?" said the old lady.
"Who, Missis?" said Dinah.
"Ruth."
"Missis Hall lives here," answered Dinah, with a puzzled look.
"Exactly," said the old lady; "she is my son's wife."
"Oh! I beg your pardon, Missis," said Dinah, courtesying respectfully. "I never heard her name called Ruth afore: massa calls her 'bird,' and 'sunbeam.'"
The old lady frowned.
"Is she at home?" she repeated, with stately dignity.
"No," said Dinah, "Missis is gone rambling off in the woods with little Daisy. She 's powerful fond of flowers, and things. She climbs fences like a squir'l!
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it makes this chil' laf' to see the ol' farmers stare at her."
"You must have a great deal to do, here;" said the old lady, frowning; "Ruth is n't much of a hand at house-work."
"Plenty to do, Missis, and willin' hands to do it. Dinah don't care how hard she works, if she don't work to the tune of a lash; and Missis Hall goes singing about the house so that it makes time fly."
"She don't ever help you any, does she?" said the persevering old lady.
"Lor' bless you! yes, Missis. She comes right in and makes a pie for Massa Harry, or cooks a steak jess' as easy as she pulls off a flower; and when Dinah's cooking anything new, she asks more questions how it 's done than this chil' kin answer."
"You have a great deal of company, I suppose; that must make you extra trouble, I should think; people riding out from the city to supper, when you are all through and cleared away: don't it tire you?"
"No; Missis Hall takes it easy. She laf's merry, and says to the company, 'you get tea enough in the city, so I sha n't give you any; we had tea long ago; but here 's some fresh milk, and some raspberries and cake; and if you can't eat that, you ought to go hungry.'
"She irons Harry's shirts, I suppose?" said the old lady.
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"She? s'pose dis chil' let her? when she 's so careful, too, of ol' Dinah's bones?"
"Well," said the old lady, foiled at all points, "I 'll walk over the house a bit, I guess; I won't trouble you to wait on me, Dinah;" and the old lady started on her exploring tour.