“Oh, Mary, thank you! You are just splendid! Mrs. Brane says she is going to get a man and wife.”
“Now, that's good. That's what we need—a man,” said Mary. She was emphatically an old-fashioned woman, that is, a woman completely capable of any sort of heroism, but who never feels safe unless there is a man in the house. “Those black men, I think, are worse'n ghosts about a place. Not that they come in often, but one of the housekeepers was askin' that George be allowed to sleep inside. I was against it myself. Now, you depend upon me, miss.”
I was almost absurdly grateful, partly because her pluck steadied my nerves, which the morning's occurrences had flurried a little, and partly because I was glad that she did not share Robbie's peculiar prejudice. I went back to the house thoroughly braced, and watched the three old women depart without a pang.
Nevertheless, that description of the other housekeepers did linger uncomfortably in my memory.
CHAPTER IV—PAUL DABNEY
I”LL be glad to get at this kitchen,” said Mary when we went down to survey the scene of our impromptu labors; “those old women were abominably careless. Why, they left enough food about and wasted enough to feed an army. I would n't wonder, miss, if some of them blacks from outside come in here and make a fine meal off of pickin's. They could easy enough, and Mrs. Brane never miss it.”
I
“I dare say,” said I, inspecting the bright, cheerful place with real pleasure; “but, at any rate, Delia was a clean old soul. Everything's as bright as a new pin.”
Mary begrudged Delia this compliment. “Outside, miss,” she said, “but it's a whited sepulchre”—she pronounced it “sepoolcur”—“Look in here a moment. There's a closet that's just a scandal.”
She threw open a low door in the far end of the kitchen and, bending, I peered in.
“Why,” I said, “it's been used as a storehouse for old junk. One end is just a heap of broken-down furniture and old machinery. It would be a job to clear out, too, heavy as lead. I doubt if a woman
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