Pleasant little rooms, with the cleanest and brightest of rag carpets on the floor; a paper on the walls, cheap enough, but gay with scarlet rosebuds and green leaves, rivalled by the vines and berries on the pretty chintz curtains; chairs of a dozen ages and patterns, but all of them with open, inviting countenances and a hospitable air; a wood fire that looked like a wood fire crackling and sparkling on the hearth, shining and dancing over the ceiling and the floor and the walls, cutting queer capers with the big rocking-chair,—­which turned into a giant with long arms,—­and with the little figures on the mantel-shelf, and the books in their cases, softening and glorifying the two grand faces hanging in their frames opposite, and giving just light enough below them to let you read “John Brown” and “Phillips,” if you had any occasion to read, and did not know those whom the world knows; and first and last, and through all, as if it loved her, and was loath to part with her for a moment, whether she poked the flame, or straightened a chair, or went out towards the little kitchen to lift a lid and smell a most savory stew, or came back to the supper-table to arrange and rearrange what was already faultless in its cleanliness and simplicity, wherever she went and whatever she did, this firelight fell warm about a woman, large and comfortable and handsome, with a motherly look to her person, and an expression that was all kindness in her comely face and dark, soft eyes,—­eyes and face and form, though, that might as well have had “Pariah” written all over them, and “leper” stamped on their front, for any good, or beauty, or grace, that people could find in them; for the comely face was a dark face, and the voice, singing an old Methodist hymn, was no Anglo-Saxon treble, but an Anglo-African voice, rich and mellow, with the touch of pathos or sorrow always heard in these tones.

“There!” she said, “there he is!” as a step, hasty yet halting, was heard on the pavement; and, turning up the light, she ran quickly to open the door, which, to be sure, was unfastened, and to give the greeting to her “boy,” which, through many a year, had never been omitted.

Her boy,—­you would have known that as soon as you saw him,—­the same eyes, same face, the same kindly look; but the face was thinner and finer, and the brow was a student’s brow, full of thought and speculation; and, looking from her hearty, vigorous form, you saw that his was slight to attenuation.

“Sit down, sonny, sit down and rest.  There! how tired you look!” bustling round him, smoothing his thin face and rough hair.  “Now don’t do that! let your old mother do it!” It pleased her to call herself old, though she was but just in her prime.  “You’ve done enough for one day, I’m sure, waiting on other people, and walking with your poor lame foot till you’re all but beat out.  You be quiet now, and let somebody else wait on you.”  And, going down on her knees, she took up the lame foot, and began to unlace the cork-soled, high-cut shoe, and, drawing it out, you saw that it was shrunken and small, and that the leg was shorter than its fellow.