“Oldfield, December 20, 18—.

“Sukey: I saw Miss Sibby Bayard’s Gad go by the house this morning on the mule, with a bag of wheat before him, taking it to old Killman’s mill to be ground, and I know she is going to have hot biscuits for supper out of the new wheat; so I want you to come and bring Rosemary with you, and we will walk over there and take tea with her. You ride Jo, and take the child up behind you, and let the boy walk. Dolly.”

“Sukey” was Miss Grandiere, a tall, handsome and dignified maiden lady of about forty years of age. She had a shapely head, regular features, fair complexion, blue eyes and brown hair, brushed away from her forehead, and twisted into a roll on the top of her head.

She wore a plain, dark, calico gown, made with a short waist, tight sleeves, and long, narrow skirt, and a plain, white, muslin handkerchief around her neck, and pinned firmly across her bosom.

She stood upon the rudest sort of porch, built of rough pine boards, and shaded by hop vines, now withered under the wintry air.

Yet homely as were her attire and surroundings, it seemed as inappropriate for any one to call the stately Susannah Grandiere “Sukey,” as it is for some writers to refer to England’s magnificent Elizabeth as “Queen Bess.”

Beside this dignified dame stood a very dainty, delicate and pathetic-looking little girl of about twelve years of age, who leaned half fondly, half lazily against the lady’s side.

She was Miss Grandiere’s niece, shadow and worshiper. Her name was Rosemary Hedge, and she was the only and orphan child of Miss Grandiere’s widowed sister, Mrs. Dorothy Hedge, the writer of the note.

Rosemary was a slight, tiny, fragile creature, with a mere slip of a figure, and mites of hands and feet. She had a thin face, a pale rose complexion, large, light blue eyes, and black hair, which she wore as children do now—partly banged across her forehead, but mostly hanging down her shoulders. She was clothed in a prim, blue, calico gown, with a short waist, high neck, tight sleeves, and a skirt all the way down to her feet, which were shod in coarse leather shoes over home-knit, gray stockings.

The child was looking up to her aunt in great anxiety while the latter read the letter brought by the negro boy, Dan, who stood, torn hat in hand, holding the bridle of a short, fat, white cob, Jovial by name, commonly called “Jo.”

“Is it for me to go home? Oh, Aunt Sukey, is it for me to go home?” uneasily inquired the little girl, as the lady folded the letter.

“No, child, no,” soothingly replied the lady. “It is only to ask us both to ride four miles, and walk one, for the sake of eating ‘Hot Biscuits,’ in capital letters, for supper.”

“She say—Miss Dolly say—how you and Miss Ro’mery mus’ ride Jo, and me to lead him,” here explained the ragged negro boy.

“Just like my poor sister Hedge! Well, it does not matter much. I was thinking about going over to Oldfield to-day; but all the horses here being at work, I had to give it up. Anyhow, I had certainly made up my mind to go down on the bay, before the great Force wedding, for as the ceremony is to be performed at All Faith Church, it will be much more convenient to attend it from Oldfield than from here. Are the ladies at Oldfield invited to the wedding, do you know, Dan?”

“Oh, Lor’! yes’m. Ebrybody is ’wited, an’ de church all dessicated full o’ holly an’ ebbergreens, like Chris’mas!”

“Decorated, you mean, Dan.”

“Yes’m, desecrated.”

“Now then, Dan, give the horse some water, and let him rest while you get something to eat. We have just now done dinner, and the servants are taking theirs in the kitchen. Aunt Moll will give you yours, and by the time you have finished we shall be ready to start. Come, Rosemary.”

And taking her niece by the hand, Miss Grandiere stepped from the porch into a plainly furnished bedchamber, which was her own private apartment—sitting room by day, bedroom by night—and which she shared with her favorite niece whenever the little girl happened to be staying with her, which was, indeed, most of the time.

“Aunt Sukey’s room” was the best bedchamber in the farmhouse, being on the first floor, in the rear of the building, and opening upon the vine-shaded porch on the outside, and into the common hall on the inside.

On a line with the porch was the best parlor, and on the other side of the hall there was a front dining room and a back sitting room.

Although “Aunt Sukey’s room” was the best, it was a very plain apartment, with whitewashed walls and bare floor.

On each side of the door, as you entered from the porch, was a window, making the place very light and cheerful. This was the east side. On the south side was an open fireplace, with a bright, oak-wood fire burning in it, defended by a wire fender. Above it was a mantelpiece, adorned by a fine engraving of the Nativity in a plain, wooden frame, and flanked by two brass candlesticks. In the corner was a triangular cupboard with glass doors reaching from floor to ceiling, and filled with a collection of rare old china which would have been the envy and despair of a wealthy and fashionable collector; for one of Aunt Sukey’s grandfathers and two of her uncles and one of her brothers had been captains of East India merchantmen.

On the west side stood a high, old-fashioned chest of drawers, whose top was covered with a fair, white, linen cloth, and adorned by an old-time looking glass mounted on its own box of small dressing drawers. On each side of this glass were two round bandboxes of blue paper, containing two poke bonnets, as common then as now.

Finally, on the north side of the room, with its head against the wall, stood the pride of the chamber—a four-post, mahogany bedstead with white, dimity curtains, and with a full, high, feather bed and bolsters and pillows heaped up, and covered—the bed with a homemade, blue-and-white counterpane, and the bolster and pillows by cases of homespun white linen.

All along the walls of the room, between every piece of furniture, stood plain, chip-bottom pine chairs. In the middle of the room, as being in constant use, was a chip-bottom rocker and a child’s low chair of the same material. A large spinning wheel stood in the corner between the window and the fireplace, and before it stood a negro girl, spinning. This was Miss Sukey’s own maid, Henny.

Miss Susannah Grandiere did not live in her own house, although she was a woman of ample means and might have done so. She divided her time about equally between the two farmhouses—Grove Hill, the home of her married sister, Mrs. William Elk, where she was staying at present; and Oldfield, the home of her married brother, Thomas Grandiere, and also of their widowed sister, Mrs. Dorothy Hedge, to which she had just been invited.

These two places were always familiarly referred to by their respective owners as “Up in the Forest” and “Down on the Bay”—Grove Hill being “Up in the Forest,” and Oldfield “Down on the Bay.”

In both these farmhouses there was a room set apart and known as “Aunt Sukey’s room,” and her treasures, her Lares and Penates, were about equally divided between them.

These rooms, however, when unoccupied, were at the disposal of any visitor who might be staying at either house during the absence of Miss Grandiere.

But whether Aunt Sukey sojourned at Oldfield or at Grove Hill, her quaint, little orphan niece, Rosemary, was always her inseparable companion—an arrangement that was not displeasing to the widowed mother, who said in her heart:

“If anything should happen to me, Sukey will take care of Rosemary.” Or, “If Sukey should never marry, Rosemary will be her heiress.”

Even the negroes said:

“Miss Ro’m’ry is mo’ like Miss Sukey’s own chile dan Miss Dolly’s darter, anyways.”

They had now been staying “Up in the Forest” ever since harvest, and their manner of life was quaint enough, especially in the evenings.

When the day was nearly spent, and the family supper was over, and Uncle Billy had gone out to see that barn and stable and sheepfold were well secured, and all else right outside, and when Aunt Molly had gone her rounds in poultry yard and dairy, and was putting her children to bed, then Aunt Sukey, Rosemary and the negro girl, Henny, would retire into Aunt Sukey’s room, to utilize the lingering light of the short winter day by working at whatever tasks were on hand, for never did holiday begin until the candle should be lighted.

It was some homely, country work always. And Aunt Sukey would probably be knitting. Rosemary sewing together scraps for a patchwork quilt and the negro girl, Henny, seated on a stool, would be engaged in winding off the yarn from a “jack” into balls.

It was usually little Rosemary who would give the signal for stopping work, by saying, in pleading tones:

“Aunt Sukey, ain’t it most time to let down the blinds and light the candle?”

Whereupon the negro girl would set her reel jack in the corner, and untie and drop the paper blinds before the two windows, and light the tallow dip on the mantelpiece.

Rosemary would roll up her “pieces,” and put away her work in a little homemade chip basket, which she would hang upon its own nail.

Last of all, Aunt Sukey would draw her knitting needle from its sheaf, roll up the half-finished stocking, and put it away in a workbag hanging on a hook, near the chimney corner.

And then began the dissipations of the evening. Innocent enough dissipations, though they were howled at by some folks.

Aunt Sukey would resume her seat in the rocker.

Henny would set a little table near her mistress, and place on it the lighted candle and a pair of snuffers.

Rosemary would bring out from the top drawer of the bureau a hoarded and treasured volume, and lay it beside them.

Then, when all were seated—the lady in her rocker, the child on a little chair at her feet, and the negro girl on the floor in the corner of the chimney—Aunt Sukey would open the book, and begin where she left off the night before, and go on with the fortunes of “Evelina,” “Camilla,” “Clarissa Harlowe,” or “Amanda Fitzallen,” as the case might be; novels, which, however excellent in themselves, would scarcely be read in these days, though in those they were “devoured,” so much so that if one of them appeared in any house, it was sure to go the round of the whole county, and be read to rags before it got home again, if it ever did. In this respect the neighborhood was a free, unorganized, irresponsible circulating library.

Aunt Sukey bought some books, lent some, and borrowed some, but never kept any.

So evening after evening she would read to her attentive hearers, while little Rosemary’s large, blue eyes grew larger and larger with wonder and interest, and Henny’s attention relaxed, and her head drooped lower and lower, as she nodded over the fire, until there seemed some danger of her falling into it.

In this manner Miss Sukey was training, all unconsciously, the mind of the most romantic little fairy that ever lived to make a romance of her own.

When the dip candle had burned nearly down to the socket Aunt Sukey knew by that sign that it was about nine o’clock. They had no other timepiece, so they went by the candle, which always burned just so long.

Then Aunt Sukey would only finish her chapter before closing her book.

Then Henny would wake up, light a fresh candle, and stand waiting orders. She need never have waited, for she knew exactly what the order would be. It was always the same formula.

“Henny, go to the storehouse, and draw a jug of fresh cider, and cork it tight. Then take the bread tray, and get a quart of flour, and a quarter of a pound of lard, and a teaspoonful of salt, and bring all in here. And don’t forget the rolling board and pin, nor the hoe blade.”

These would all be brought, and then Henny, having carefully washed her hands, and set the clean hoe blade to heat before the fire, would stand up to the table upon which she had placed her kneading tray, and there she would knead and afterward roll out her hoe cake, and spread it on the heated hoe to bake before the fire. She would, in fact, bake three in succession, turning them carefully, and finally placing them near the fire as they were taken off the hoe, to be kept hot until all was ready. Lastly, she would carry away all the utensils used, bring the little table to the front of the fire, and place cider, glasses, hoe cakes and china plates from the corner cupboard upon it. And the aunt and niece would sit down and “take a snack,” as they called it—make a very hearty supper of very substantial food, as we should certainly say. What powers of digestion they must have had!

When they had feasted, Henny would finish what was left, clear and replace the table, replenish the fire from the wood pile outside the door, sweep the hearth, put up the fender, and bid her mistress good-night.

The aunt and niece would say their prayers, undress, and go to bed together.

This was the routine, observed every evening, that Rosemary enjoyed more than anything on the face of the earth, except—oh, yes! except going to the dancing school at Charlotte Hall, whither she was taken with her cousins at Oldfield twice a week.