feigned astonishment at there being no footman, he climbed down from the box with so much dignity that even Aunt Em’ly was impressed, though unwilling to acknowledge it.

“That ol’ nigger certainly do walk low for anybody who sets so high,” she whispered to Mildred. The bowing of Uncle Billy’s legs in truth took many inches from his height. But the old man, in spite of crooked legs, worn-out boots, shabby livery and battered high hat, carried himself with the air of a prime minister. Miss Ann Peyton was his queen.

There was an expression of infinite pathos on the countenance of the old darkey as he opened the door of the ancient coach. Bowing low, as though to royalty, he said, “Miss Ann, we air done arrive.” 27

Jeff Bucknor took his mother’s arm and gently led her down the walk. Involuntarily she stiffened under his affectionate grasp and held back. It was all very well for the men of the family to take the stand they did concerning Cousin Ann Peyton and her oft-repeated visits. Men had none of the bother of company. Of course she would be courteous to her and always treat her with the consideration due an aged kinswoman, but she could not see the use of pretending she was glad to see her and rushing down the walk to meet her as though she were an honored guest.

“It is hard on Mildred and Nan,” she murmured to her stalwart son, as he escorted her towards the battered coach.

“Yes, Mother, but kin is kin—and the poor old lady hasn’t any real home.”

“Well then she might—There are plenty of them—very good comfortable ones—”

“You mean homes for old ladies? Oh, Mother, you know Father would never consent to that. Neither would Uncle Tom nor Big Josh. She would hate it and then there’s Uncle Billy and the horses—Cupid and Puck—to say nothing of the chariot.”

Further discussion was impossible. Mother and son reached the yard gate as Uncle Billy 28 opened the coach door and announced the fact that Miss Ann had arrived at her destination. Then began the unpacking of the visitor. It was a roomy carriage, and well that it was so. When Miss Peyton traveled she traveled. Having no home, everything she possessed must be carried with her. Trunks were strapped on the back of the coach and inside with the mistress were boxes and baskets and bundles, suitcases and two of those abominations known as telescopes, from which articles of clothing were bursting forth.

It was plain to see from the untidy packing that Miss Ann and Uncle Billy had left their last abode in a hurry. Even Miss Peyton’s features might have been called untidy, if such a term could be used in connection with a countenance whose every line was aristocratic. As a rule that lady was able so to control her emotions that the uninitiated were ignorant of the fact that she had emotions. She gave one the impression on that morning in June of having packed her emotions hurriedly, as she had her clothes, and they were darting from her flashing eyes as were garments from the telescopes.

Gently, almost as though he were performing a religious rite, Uncle Billy lifted the shabby baggage from the coach. 29

“Let me help you, Uncle Billy. Good morning, Cousin Ann. I am very glad to see you,” said Jeff, although it was impossible to see Cousin Ann until some of the luggage was removed.

“Thank you, cousin.” Miss Ann spoke from the depths of the coach. Her voice trembled a little.

At last, every box, bag and bundle was removed and piled by Uncle Billy upon each side of the yard gate like a triumphal arch through which his beloved mistress might pass.

Old Billy unfolded the steps of the coach. These steps were supposed to drop at the opening of the door but the spring had long ago lost its power and the steps must be lowered by hand.

“Mind whar you tread, Miss Ann,” he whispered. Nobody must hear him suggest that the steps were not safe. Nobody must ever know that he and Miss Ann and the coach and horses were getting old and played out.

Miss Ann had dignity enough to carry off broken steps, shabby baggage, rickety carriage—anything. She emerged from the coach with the air of being visiting royalty conferring a favor on her lowly subjects by stopping with them. Her dignity even overtopped the fact 30 that her auburn wig was on crooked and a long lock of snow-white hair had straggled from its moorings and crept from the confines of the purple quilted-satin poke bonnet. The beauty which had been hers in her youth was still hers although everybody could not see it. Uncle Billy could see it and Jeff Bucknor glimpsed it, as his old cousin stepped from her dingy coach. He had never realized before that Cousin Ann Peyton had lines and proportions that must always be beautiful—a set of the head, a slope of shoulder, a length of limb, a curve of wrist and a turn of ankle. The old purple poke bonnet might have been a diadem, so high did she carry her head; and she floated along in the midst of her voluminous skirts like a belle of the sixties—which she had been and still was in the eyes of her devoted old servant.

Miss Peyton wore hoop skirts. Where she got them was often conjectured. Surely she could not be wearing the same ones she had worn in the sixties and everybody knew that the articles were no longer manufactured. Big Josh had declared on one occasion when some of the relatives had waxed jocose on the subject of Cousin Ann and her style of dress, that she had bought a gross of hoop skirts cheap at the time when they were going out of style and had them 31 stored in his attic—but then everybody knew that Big Josh would say anything that popped into his head and then swear to it and Little Josh would back him up.

“By heck, there’s no room in the attic for trunks,” he had insisted. “Hoop skirts everywhere! Boxes of ’em! Barrels of ’em! Hanging from the rafters like Japanese lanterns! Standing up in the corners like ghosts scaring a fellow to death! I can’t keep servants at all because of Cousin Ann Peyton’s buying that gross of hoop skirts. Little Josh will bear me out in this.”

And Little Josh would, although the truth of the matter was that Cousin Ann had only one hoop skirt, and it was the same she had worn in the sixties. Inch by inch its body had been renewed to reclaim it from the ravages of time until not one iota of the original garment was left. Here a tape and there a wire had been carefully changed, but always the hoop kept its original form. The spirit of the sixties still breathed from it and it enveloped Miss Ann as in olden days.

Mrs. Bucknor stood aside while Uncle Billy and Jeff unpacked the carriage but as the visitor emerged she came forward. “How do you do, Cousin Ann?” she said, trying to put some warmth in her remark. “Have you driven far?”

Cousin Ann leaned over stiffly and gave her hostess a perfunctory peck on her cheek. “We left Cousin Betty Throckmorton’s this morning,” she said with a toss of the purple poke bonnet.

“Then you must have had a very early breakfast.” It was a well-known fact that the sorrel horses, although of the famous Golddust breed, were old and could travel at a stretch only about five miles an hour.

“We lef’ Miss Betty’s befo’ breakfas’,” said Uncle Billy sadly, but a glance from his mistress made him add, “but we ain’t hongry, case we done et our fill at a hotel back yonder.”

“I deemed it wise to travel before the heat of