Talbot's Angles. Amy Ella Blanchard
until they stopped before a gate leading to an old red house which faced the sapphire river. Here lived Miss Maria Hill.
Her cheery self came out on the porch to meet them. "Of all things, Verlinda Talbot!" she cried. "And Phebe, too. Well, this is a surprise. Come right in. You are going to stay to dinner and we will have a good old-fashioned talk." She never failed to call Linda by the quaint name which had been given to various daughters of the Talbot family for many generations. "Go right out into the kitchen, Phebe," continued Miss Ri, "and if you can put any energy into that lazy Randy's heels, I'll be thankful. When are you going to make up your mind to come and live with me, Phebe?" she asked, laughing at the never-failing joke.
But this time Phebe's answer, instead of being: "When de dead ducks eat up all de mud, Miss Ri," was: "Whenever yuh likes to have me, Miss Ri."
Miss Maria stopped short in surprise. She looked from one to another. "You don't mean it!" she cried.
"Yas'm, I means it; dat is, ef acco'din' to de ques', yu teks Miss Lindy, too."
Miss Ri turned her gaze on Linda. "What does all this mean?" she asked. "Come on in, Phebe—no, you mustn't go into the kitchen just yet; we must thrash this out first." She led the way into a cheerful living-room, against whose ancient walls stood solid pieces of shining mahogany. Time-stained pictures, one or two portraits, old engravings, a couple of silhouettes looked down at the group. "Sit right down here, Verlinda dear. There's a chair for you, Phebe. Now let us hear all about it." Miss Ri drew up a chair and enfolded one of Linda's black-gloved hands in hers. "What does it all mean?"
"It means just this, Miss Ri," said Linda; "Grace is preparing to leave Talbot's Angles and is going to the city for the winter. I cannot stay there alone, even if I had the means to keep up the house, and as it is to be closed, I am thrown on my own resources. Mr. Willis has been good enough to interest himself in getting me a position in one of the schools, and I have come up to town to find a boarding place. I have passed my examinations and am to have Miss Patterson's position, for you know she is going to be married this fall. And now, Miss Ri, Phebe thinks that maybe you would be so good as to take me in."
"Ef yuh teks her, yuh gits me," broke in Phebe with an air of finality.
"It's a bargain," cried Miss Maria. "Have I been speaking for Phebe all these years to be deprived of her now on account of so slight a thing as Verlinda Talbot? No, indeed. I shall be delighted to have you as my guest, my dear. While as for you, Phebe, go right into the kitchen and stir up that lazy Randy with a poker, or anything else you can find. Thank goodness, I shall not have to keep her long. Go along, Phebe." Thus adjured, Phebe departed, ducking her head and chuckling; she dearly liked the errand.
"It must be as a paying guest, you understand," said Linda, when Phebe had left them.
"Paying nonsense! Isn't my house big enough for plump me, skinny you, and fat Phebe? You see how I discriminate between my size and Phebe's?"
"Then if I am not to be a real boarder, I can't come," said Linda firmly.
"And I shall lose Phebe! Verlinda Talbot, you are right-down mean. All right, then, come any way you like, and the sooner, the better. We'll fix it somehow; just make yourself easy on that score. My! I never looked for such luck; a young companion and a good cook at one and the same time. I'll get your room ready right away. I don't suppose you could stay now?"
Linda smiled. "Not to-day. I haven't a very extensive wardrobe, but such as it is, I must get it together; but I shall come within the next ten days. It is so very good of you to take me in, Miss Ri. Joking aside, I am most grateful. It makes the giving up of my own home less of a dread."
"Bless your heart, you dear child; I will try to make you comfortable. I have always wanted someone to mother, but I never expected the Lord would send me Verlinda Talbot. I am not going to ask any questions now, but some day we'll get at the root of the matter. Meantime let it rest. How is Grace bearing up?"
Linda hesitated. "Of course, she misses Martin terribly, but I think she is well; she has a good appetite."
Miss Ri smiled. "I don't doubt it. Has her sister come?"
"Yes."
"A nice sort of somebody, is she?"
"Yes, quite harmless, really good-hearted, I think, but rather dull. However, though she may bore one, she has no affectations. She is devoted to Grace, and I think will be of great use to her."
Miss Ri nodded understandingly. "Take off your things, dear," she said gently. "You are going to stay to dinner, you know, and then we will choose a room for you." She missed the color from the girl's face and noted the heavy shadows under the violet eyes, when Linda removed her hat. "Poor darling," she said to herself, "only time can help her. Grief sits heavily on her heart." She turned to a curious old cupboard in one corner of the room. "You must have some of my home-made wine," she said, "and then we will pick out the room. Would you like one looking out on the river or on the road?"
"Oh, a river room, if I may," replied Linda eagerly.
"Very well; so be it. I'll show you both and you can take your choice; or no, better still, I will fix up the one I am sure you will prefer, for it will look cosier than it does now, and you will have a better impression of it." She poured out some amber-hued wine from an old decanter. "Here, drink this," she said, "and I will join you in a health. Here's to many happy days under my roof, Verlinda, and may you never regret coming to your old friend, Maria Hill."
Just then Phebe's black face appeared at the door. "Miss Ri," she said, "I cain't stan' pokin' 'roun' arfter that fool nigger. I is gwine to set de table, ef yuh'll show me whar de things is, please, ma'am."
Miss Ri finished her glass with a "Here's to Phebe!" and Linda followed her to the dining-room.
CHAPTER III
LEAVING THE NEST
In this quiet little corner of Maryland's eastern shore, if life lacked the bustle and stir of more widely-known localities, it did not lack interest for its residents, while at the same time it provided a certain easy content which is missed in places more densely populated, or of more stirring affairs.... To Linda Talbot the days had come and gone in careless fashion up to the time of her brother's death, for even his marriage did not rob her of friendships, and of concern in the small neighborhood doings, especially in matters relating to the little church, which, because it stood upon Talbot ground, had always been considered the special care of those dwelling at Talbot's Angles. The church was very old and it had required many bazars, many efforts at subscription, many appeals to keep it in repair, and now it showed its antiquity in moss-grown walls, mouldy woodwork, falling plaster and weather-stained casements.
On this last Sunday, when she should perform her weekly duty of placing flowers upon the altar, Linda clipped her choicest white chrysanthemums from the bushes and early in the day took them to the church, making her way through dankly green paths overgrown with woodbine, that she might reach the enclosure where dead and gone Talbots of many generations were buried. Upon a newly-sodded grave she laid her fairest blossoms, and stood for a moment with heaving breast and quivering lips, then she went on to the church, pushing open the creaking door which led into the still, dimly-lighted, musty-smelling place.
"There must be more air and sun," she said, setting wide the door and forcing open a window that the sunlight might pour in. Then she busied herself with placing the flowers in their vases. This done, she sat down in the old family pew, her thoughts travelling back to the days when it had been scarce large enough for them all, father, mother, grandmother, two brothers, three sisters, and now all resting in the quiet churchyard, herself the youngest of them all, the only one left. She ran her hand lovingly along the corner of the