It made Elizabeth Darrell feel more of a forlorn stranger than ever when she saw the new luxury that surrounded her father’s poor old house. She descended from the cab and with a faltering hand rang the bell. Her ring was answered by a negro woman, stout, elderly, and decent, but far removed from the smart English maids and native Indian servants to whom Elizabeth had been long accustomed. However, so strong is early habitude that the sight of this honest black face gave Elizabeth the first sentiment of home she had felt since her widowhood. In that black face was a doglike softness and kindness, and in the voice a compassionate yet deprecatory quality, which is not heard often in any but an African voice. “You is Mis’ ‘Lisbeth,” she said kindly, holding the door wide. “De Gin’l, he ear’n lookin’ fer you ’twell to–morrer—but come right in heah.” There were signs of preparation within, but the room designed for Elizabeth—the best bedroom in the house—was not ready. Serena—for so she informed Elizabeth was her name—was full of humble, soft apologies. “De Gin’l will be mighty worried dat he war’n home when you come; he was countin’ on meckin’ you mighty comfortable.” To which Elizabeth, her spirit dying within her at the aspect of things, answered: “Is not the front bedroom in the third story furnished? Perhaps I could go there.” Serena eagerly led the way. It was the room which had been Elizabeth’s ten years ago. She had chosen it because General Brandon was always entertaining some of his relations, and had the old–time idea that hospitality to a guest meant the upsetting of all family arrangements; so Elizabeth had chosen this upper room for her own, secure in not being turned out of it to accommodate some ex–Confederate general, judge, or other person distinguished in “our great Civil War,” as General Brandon always spoke of it. The windows had a good outlook upon the blue Potomac and on the misty line of the Virginia hills far beyond. Otherwise it had not a single recommendation. Serena, her heart in her beady black eyes, was all sympathy and attention. She brought tea, called Elizabeth “honey,” and talked in her slow and soothing voice of “de Gin’l.” Evidently General Brandon was a hero to his maid–of–all–work.