In honor of his coming to live with Susan, the old house was “treated to a fine fixin’-up.” The clapboard front was given a coat of pink-wash, and the horseshoe over the door painted a vivid green. New turkey red curtains were hung on all the windows; a new white marbled oilcloth was bought for the long guest table in the middle of the room; fresh shelf coverings of newspaper cut in fantastic scallops were put in the safe and on the pot shelf against the wall; and the hearth bricks and chimney-piece were treated to a new coat of red ochre. The floor was scrubbed and sprinkled with brick dust; the cypress benches, scrubbed and rubbed until the water-waves of the grain took on the appearance of old satin. And Tom’s chair beside the hearth was given a comfortable cushion covered with a piece of old plaid shawl. The mantelshelf was hung with garlands of garlic and bay leaf, long strings of red pepper pods, and bunches of onions. Two brightly-polished tomato cans, supporting cocoanuts, filled the place of ornaments at each end of the mantelpiece; and in the center stood a venerable steeple-top clock, telling that it was near the time for the “members” to arrive. A glowing fire of magnolia burrs and driftwood burned on the hearth; and the place had an impressive air of humble, medieval cheer. Aunt Susan came in from the next room, followed by Tom carrying an armful of driftwood. She helped him put it on the pile in the chimney-corner, then led him to his chair, handing him a corncob pipe, which she lighted with an ember from the ashes. He began smoking, and Susan busied herself fixing the pies in the safe, and raking the coals of fire about the large iron pot of gumbo on the hearth. She had the air of the true mistress of the inn. The careful precision with which her green-and-yellow head-handkerchief was tied, and the dignity with which she wore her stiff-starched gingham apron, might be looked upon as badges of innate cleanliness and gentility. Another entertaining detail was her cascade of bosoms in their snug-fitting sacque of gray woolen, making one think of those large, healthy, double-breasted Dutch women Rembrandt loved to paint with such startling fidelity. “Susan,” Tom called to her softly, “befo’ anybody git hyuh, I wan’ ax you somh’n.” “Yas, Tom, I’m list’nin’,” she answered. He took a long pull at his pipe, blew the smoke out slowly, then said: “If any de members hyuh tonight raise de queshton concernin’ Bell, you ain’ goin’ leave ’um specify, is you?” Walking over to his chair, Susan put her hand on his shoulder, and said quietly: “Is you ever known me to tamper wid de devil aft’ I done beat ’im out my track?” “You right, Susan. Da’s sufficien’,” he answered, and went on with his peaceful smoking.