Part 13 (1/2)

”I don't know whether they can or not,” said their grandmother. ”I ain't put in an extra leaf; this table-cloth wa'n't long enough, an'

I wa'n't goin' to have the big table-cloth to do up for all the Maxwells in creation.”

”Oh, there's room enough,” Flora said, easily. ”I can squeeze them in beside me. Put the napkins round, children, and stop teasing. Didn't I get a beautiful pie?”

”What kind is it?”

”Squash.”

”An' our squashes are all gone, an' I've got to buy one to pay her back. I should have thought you'd known better, Flora.”

”It was all the kind she had. I couldn't help it. Squashes don't cost much, mother.”

”They cost something, an' I've got all them dried apples to use up for pies.”

”Have they come in?” asked Flora, with happy unconcern about the cost of squashes and the utilization of dried apples.

”Yes, I s'pose so. I thought I heard Daniel taking 'em in the front door. I s'pose they're in the parlor.”

”You ought to go in a minute, hadn't you?”

”I s'pose so,” replied Mrs. Lowe, with a sigh of fierce resignation.

”I'll finish setting the things on the table, and you go in. Take off your ap.r.o.n.”

”This dress don't look fit.”

”Yes, it does, too; it's clean. Run along.”

Mrs. Lowe smoothed her spa.r.s.e hair severely at the kitchen looking-gla.s.s; then she advanced upon the parlor with the air of a pacific grenadier. The children were following slyly in her wake, but their mother caught sight of them and pulled them back.

Mr. Tuxbury had been sitting in the parlor with his guests, trying his best to entertain them. He had gotten out the photograph alb.u.m for Lois, and a book of views in the Holy Land for her mother. If he had felt in considerable haste to escape from his sister's indignation and return to his visitors, they had been equally anxious for him to come.

When Mrs. Field and her daughter were left alone in the office, their first sensation was that of actual terror of each other.

Mrs. Field concealed hers well enough. She sat up without a tremor in her unbending back, and looked out of the office door, which the lawyer had left open. Just opposite the door, out on the sidewalk, two men stood talking. She kept her eyes fastened upon them.

”What time did you start?” said she presently, in a harsh voice, which seemed to rudely shock the stillness. She did not turn her eyes.

”I--came--on the first--train,” answered Lois, pantingly. Once in a while she stole furtive, wildly questioning glances at her mother, but her mother never met them. She continued to look at the talking men on the sidewalk.

”Mother,” began Lois finally, in a desperate voice. But just then Mr.

Tuxbury had reappeared, and conducted them to his parlor.

The parlor had lace curtains and a Brussles carpet, and looked ornate to Mrs. Field and Lois. The chairs were covered with green plush. The two women sat timidly on the yielding cus.h.i.+ons, and gazed during the pauses at the large flower pattern on the carpet. All this fine furniture was, in fact, Mrs. Lowe's; when she had given up her own home, and come to live with her brother, she had brought it with her.

Both of the guests arose awkwardly, Mrs. Field first and Lois after her, when Mrs. Lowe entered, and the lawyer introduced them.

”I'm happy to make your acquaintance,” said Mrs. Field.

”I believe I've seen you two or three times when you was here years ago,” said Mrs. Lowe, standing before her straight and tall in her faded calico gown, which fitted her uncompromisingly like a cuira.s.s.

Mrs. Lowe's gowns, no matter how thin and faded, always fitted her in that way. Stretched over her long flat-chested figure, they seemed to acquire the consistency of armor. ”You ain't changed any as I can see,” she went on, as she got scarcely any response to her first remark. ”I should have known you anywhere. It's a pleasant day, ain't it?”