A rather
cross-looking spinster stood in the door of the house, and as Betty and
Mrs. Seymour alighted she said snappishly:--
"I don't own much room, as I told your men, Mister Lieutenant, but so
long as you're not Hessians I'm willing to open my door for you. It
won't be for long, will it?"
"Oh, no," replied Mrs. Seymour, with her pretty, gracious smile, "we are
simply in need of a night's lodging. I think we have food enough in our
hampers, and if you can give us hot milk I have coffee ready for
making."
"I don't begrudge you nothing," said the woman in a softened tone, as
Betty bade her a pleasant good-day, "but it's a poor place, anyhow,"
gazing up at the bare rafters, "and as I live here all alone I have to
be precious careful of my few things."
"But it so neat and clean," said Betty, pulling a three-legged stool
toward the fire, and surveying the recently scrubbed floor; "we are cold
and weary, and you are very good to take us in."
Evidently the woman was amenable to politeness, for she bustled around
and insisted upon making the coffee, which Caesar produced in due time
from his hamper under the box-seat, and she laid a cloth on the
pine-wood table, and at last, after disappearing for a few minutes into
the darkness of a small inner room, reappeared with three silver spoons
and two forks in her hand, which she laid carefully down beside the
pewter plates on the table with an air of pride as she remarked,
addressing no one in particular:--
"The forks was my grandmother's, and my father fetched the spoons from a
voyage he made on the Spanish main, and he always said they was made of
real Spanish dollars.
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