Supper was too good to be
slighted, in spite of Carrie's dangerous position. The man of the
house was a Quaker, and while his wife stood up to wait on the table,
he repeatedly asked her in a thee-and-thou language highly edifying
to aunt Corinne, for certain pickles and jams and stuffed mangoes;
and as she brought them one after the other, he helped the children
plentifully, twinkling his eyes at them. He was a delicious old
fellow; as good in his way as the jams.
"And won't thee have some-in a sasser?" he inquired tenderly of
Carrie, "and set up and feed thyself? Thee ought to give thy grandame
a chance to eat her bite--don't thee be a selfish little dear."
"I want my mamma," responded Carrie, at once taking this twinkle-eyed
childless father into her confidence. "I'm waiting for my mamma. When
she comes she'll give me my supper and put me to bed."
"Thee's a big enough girl to wait ort thyself," said the Quaker, not
understanding the signs his wife made to him.
"She doesn't live at your house," pursued the, child. "She lives at
papa's house."
"Where is papa's house?" inquired the lawyer helping himself to
bread as if that were the chief object of his thoughts.
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