“Oh, I’m so glad,” said Anna.  “We’ll have a time, for ma’ll invite them here, of course.  Cad thinks a heap of Durward, and I want so bad to see him.  Don’t you?”

’Lena made no direct reply, for much as she would like to see her compagnon du voyage, she felt an unwillingness to meet him in the presence of Carrie, who she knew would spare no pains to mortify her.  Soon forgetting Durward, Anna again alluded to her plan of dressing ’Lena, wishing “Cad would mind her own business.”  Then, as a new idea entered her head, she brightened up, exclaiming, “I know what I can do.  I’ll have Corinda curl your hair real pretty.  You’ve got beautiful hair.  A heap nicer than my yellow flax.”

’Lena offered no remonstrance, and Corinda, who came at the call of her young mistress, immediately commenced brushing and curling the bright, wavy hair which Anna had rightly called beautiful.  While this was going on, Grandma Nichols, who had always adhered to the good old puritanical custom of dining exactly at twelve o’clock, began to wonder why dinner was not forthcoming.  She had breakfasted in Versailles, but like many travelers, could not eat much at a hotel, and now her stomach clamored loudly for food.  Three times had she walked back and forth before what she supposed was the kitchen, and from which a savory smell of something was issuing, and at last determining to stop and reconnoiter, she started for the door.

The northern reader at all acquainted with southern life, knows well that a kitchen there and a kitchen here are two widely different things—­ours, particularly in the country, being frequently used as a dining-room, while a southern lady would almost as soon think of eating in the barn as in her cook-room.  Like most other planters, Mr. Livingstone’s kitchen was separate and at some little distance from the main building, causing grandma to wonder “how the poor critters managed to carry victuals back and to when it was cold and slippery.”

When Aunt Milly, who was up to her elbows in dough, saw her visitor approaching, she exclaimed, “Lor’-a-mighty, if thar ain’t ole miss coming straight into this lookin’ hole!  Jeff, you quit that ar’ pokin’ in dem ashes, and knock Lion out that kittle; does you har?  And you, Polly,” speaking to a superannuated negress who was sitting near the table, “you just shove that ar’ piece of dough, I done save to bake for you and me, under your char, whar she won’t see it.”

Polly complied, and by this time Mrs. Nichols was at the door, surveying the premises, and thinking how differently she’d make things look after a little.

“Does missus want anything?” asked Aunt Milly, and grandma replied, “Yes, I want to know if ’tain’t nigh about noon.”

This is a term never used among the blacks, and rolling up her white eyes, Aunt Milly answered, “You done got me now, sartin, for this chile know nothin’ what you mean more’n the deadest critter livin’.”