A woman in a blue calico gown, with a tin coffee-pot in one hand and a stick in the other, was raking out the red coals from under the burning logs.  At my salutation, she partly turned, looked hard at me, nodded, and muttered some inaudible words.  Then, having levelled the coals properly, she put down the coffee-pot, and, facing about, exclaimed,—­“Jimmy, git off that cheer!”

Though this phrase, short and snappish enough, was not worded as an invitation for me to sit down, I accepted it as such, and took the chair which a lean boy of some nine or ten years old had hurriedly vacated.  In such cases, I had learned by experience, it is not best to be too forward:  wait quietly, and allow the unwilling hosts time to get accustomed to your presence.  I inspected the family for a while, in silence.  The spare, bony form of the woman, her deep-set gray eyes, and the long, thin nose, which seemed to be merely a scabbard for her sharp-edged voice, gave me her character at the first glance.  As for the man, he was worn by some constant fret or worry, rather than naturally spare.  His complexion was sallow, his face honest, every line of it, though the expression was dejected, and there was a helpless patience in his voice and movements, which I have often seen in women, but never before in a man.  “Henpecked in the first degree,” was the verdict I gave, without leaving my seat.  The silence, shyness, and puny appearance of the boy might be accounted for by the loneliness of his life, and the usual “shakes”; but there was a wild, frightened look in his eye, a nervous restlessness about his limbs, which excited my curiosity.  I am no believer in those freaks of fancy called “presentiments,” but I certainly felt that there was something unpleasant, perhaps painful, in the private relations of the family.

Meanwhile, the supper gradually took shape.  The coffee was boiled, (far too much, for my taste,) bacon fried, potatoes roasted, and certain lumps of dough transformed into farinaceous grape-shot, called “biscuits.”  Dishes of blue queensware, knives and forks, cups and saucers of various patterns, and a bowl of molasses were placed upon the table; and finally the woman said, speaking to, though not looking at, me,—­

“I s’pose you ha’n’t had your supper.”

I accepted the invitation with a simple “No,” and ate enough of the rude fare (for I was really hungry) to satisfy my hosts that I was not proud.  I attempted no conversation, knowing that such people never talk when they eat, until the meal was over, and the man, who gladly took one of my cigars, was seated comfortably before the fire.  I then related my story, told my name and business, and by degrees established a mild flow of conversation.  The woman, as she washed the dishes and cleared up things for the night, listened to us, and now and then made a remark to the coffee-pot or frying-pan, evidently intended for our ears.  Some things which she said must have had a meaning hidden from me, for I could see that the man winced, and at last he ventured to say,—­