She hung the cup-towel on the rack, and, taking off her blue
checked apron, went along the little platform to the main part of
the house and into the old lady's parlour, where the morning
sunshine fell across the faces of generations of dead Blakes. The
room was still furnished with the old rosewood furniture, and the
old damask curtains hung before the single window, which gave on
the overgrown front yard and the twisted aspen. Though the rest
of the house suggested only the direst poverty, the immediate
surroundings of Mrs. Blake revealed everywhere the lavish ease so
characteristic of the old order which had passed away. The
carving on the desk, on the book-cases, on the slender sofa, was
all wrought by tedious handwork; the delicate damask coverings to
the chairs were still lustrous after almost half a century; and
the few vases scattered here and there and filled with autumn
flowers were, for the most part, rare pieces of old royal
Worcester. While it was yet Indian summer, there was no need of
fires, and the big fireplace was filled with goldenrod, which
shed a yellow dust down on the rude brick hearth.

The old lady, inspired by her indomitable energy, was already
dressed for the day in her black brocade, and sat bolt upright
among the pillows in her great oak chair.

"Some one passed the window whistling, Cynthia. Who was it? The
whistle had a pleasant, cheery sound."

"It must have been Jim Weatherby, I think: old Jacob's son."

"Is he over here?"