A Hebe-like creature, blond and pink-cheeked, in a blue-checked apron besmeared with grease and flour, came sulkily into her mother’s presence.  Seeing Mary Carmichael, she grasped the skirt of the greasy apron with the sleight of hand of a prestidigitateur and pleated it into a single handful.  Her manner, too, was no slower of transformation.  The family sulks were instantly replaced by a company bridle, aided and abetted by a company simper.  “I didn’t know the stage was in yet, maw.  I been talking to Iry.”

“This here be Miz Yellett’s gov’ment.  Maybe she’d like to pearten up some before she eats.”  She started the rocking-chair at a gallop, to signify to her daughter that she washed her hands of further responsibility.  Being proficient in the sign language of Mrs. Rodney’s second self, as indeed was every member of the family, Eudora led Mary to a bench placed in one of the rooms enjoying the distinction of a side wall, and indicated a family toilet service, which displayed every indication of having lately seen active service.  A roll-towel, more frankly significant of the multitude of the Rodneys than had been the babel of voices, a discouraged fragment of comb, a tin basin, a slippery atom of soap, these Eudora proffered with an unction worthy of better things.  “I declare Mist’ Chugg have scarce left any soap, an’ I don’t believe thar’s ’nother bit in the house.”  Eudora’s accent was but faintly reminiscent of her mother’s strong Smoky Mountain dialect, as a crude feature is sometimes softened in the second generation.  It was not unpleasing on her full, rosy mouth.  The girl had the seductiveness of her half-sister, Judith, without a hint of Judith’s spiritual quality.

Mary told her not to mind about the soap, and went to fetch her hand-bag, which, consistent with the democratic spirit of its surroundings, was resting against a clump of sage-brush, whither it had been lifted by Chugg.  Miss Carmichael’s individual toilet service, which was neither handsome nor elaborate, impressed Eudora far more potently in ranking Mary as a personage than did her dignity of office as “gov’ment.”

“I reckon you-uns must have seen Sist’ Judy up to Miz Dax’s.  I hope she war lookin’ right well.”  There was in the inquiry an unmistakable note of pride.  The connection was plainly one to be flaunted.  Judith, with her gentle bearing and her simple, convent accomplishments, was plainly the grande dame of the family.  Eudora had now divested herself of the greasy, flour-smeared apron, flinging it under the wash-bench with a single all-sufficient movement, while Mary’s look was directed towards her dressing-bag.  In glancing up to make some remark about Judith, Mary was confronted by a radiant apparition whose lilac calico skirts looked fresh from the iron.