“Old-fashioned but sort of swell, too,” she decided.  “Looks kind of like some of the parlours of those old houses on Charles Street that I used to rubber into in the evenings when the lights were lit and they’d forgot to put the blinds down.”

She liked the impassive almost Egyptian face of Aunt Dolcey, too.  The old coloured woman had received her with a serious regard but friendly.

“Mist’ Wes, he stahtle me mighty frequen’, but he nevah stahtle me with no marryin’ befo’,” she said.  “Honey, it’ll be mighty nice to have a pret’ young gal in de house.  I’ll serve you de bes’ I kin, faithful an’ stiddy, like I always serve him.  Ef I’d ‘a’ known you was a-comin’ I’d sho’ had somethin’ fo’ dinneh to-day besides greens an’ po’k, cracklin’ pone an’ apple dumplin’s.  That’s nuffin’ fo’ a weddin’ dinneh.”

But when they came to eat it, it was delicious—­the greens delicately seasoned, not greasy, the salt pork home-cured and sweet, the cracklin’ pone crumbling with richness, and the apple dumpling a delight of spicy flavour.

They sat opposite each other, in as matter-of-fact fashion as if they had been married for years.  They were young and exceedingly hungry, and hunger destroys self-consciousness.

The china was very old—­white plates with a curving pattern of blue leaves and yellow berries.  The knives and forks were polished steel with horn handles.  The spoons were silver; old handmade rat-tail spoons they were, with the mark of the smith’s mallet still upon them and the initials W.D. cut in uneven letters.

“Those were my great-granddad’s,” said Wesley.  “Same name as mine.  He had ’em made out of silver money by a man down in Frederick.  They must be nearly a hundred years old.  My great-granddad, he was the man that bought this land and began to clear it.  He wanted to be away off from everybody.”

“Why?” asked Annie, interested in the story.

The vein on Wesley’s forehead seemed to grow larger and darker as he answered: 

“Oh, he got into trouble—­knocked a man down, and the fellow struck his head on a stone and died.  It didn’t come to trial—­it really was an accident—­but it didn’t make granddad popular.  Not that he cared.  He was a hard-headed, hard-fisted old son of a gun, if there ever was one, according to the stories they tell about him.”

“What were they fighting about?”

“Oh, I dunno—­granddad was high-tempered, and this fellow was sort of smart Aleck; give him some lip about something and dared him to touch him.  And quick’s a wink granddad punched him.  At least that’s the way I always heard it.  Prob’ly they’d both been taking too much hard cider.  Bring me another dumplin’, Aunt Dolcey, please.”

As the old woman entered, bringing the dumpling, Annie fancied there were both warning and sympathy in her eyes.  Why, she couldn’t imagine.  In a moment she forgot it, for Wesley was looking at her hard.