"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 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, curtseying 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! 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 isn'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 shan'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.
"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.