The "door-yard" of the little dwelling was crowded with lilacs and other blossoming shrubs; the plain board fence and rough stone walls were covered with Virginia creepers, clematis, and morning-glories, and the turf was so neat and green as to give rise to a report among the school-boys that Aunt Hannah dressed it every morning with a hairbrush and a fine-tooth comb. The house was dark red, with rather dusky and faded green blinds. There were three rooms besides the kitchen below and two above; and as Aunt Hannah had inherited the household goods both of mother and grandmother, there was no lack of solid, respectable, old-fashioned furniture. "How pretty it looks!" said Rhoda to herself as she came across the pasture and stopped a moment to bestow a pat on old Snowball. "It ought to be put in a picture. One could tell who lived there by the outside of the house. It looks just like Aunt Hannah herself. What lots of button mushrooms! I shall have a fine time with them when my work is done." As Rhoda drew near the side window, she heard within what boded no good to her pleasant afternoon—namely, the sharp, thin, and growling voice of Mr. Jacob Weightman, Aunt Hannah's brother, of whom she stood in great fear. Now I am aware that very few voices could succeed in being sharp and growling at the same time, but Uncle Jacob's accomplished this feat. "Oh dear!" thought Rhoda. "There goes my nice visit. He will just stay and scold all the afternoon, I dare say. I wish I hadn't put on my new dress. He will be sure to say something about it. I mean to go round to the back door and wait; perhaps he will go away some time or other." Rhoda sat down on the step at the back kitchen door, and occupied herself alternately in watching the lights and shadows on the stream and in playing with the white Persian kitten Fuzzyball, which romped about the yard, while her equally white and long-haired mother sat couched by Rhoda's side in all the calm dignity befitting a lady who had come all the way from Bombay. As Rhoda sat on the step she could not help hearing through the window parts of Uncle Jacob's exhortation. "It is all nonsense, Hannah," she heard him say, "perfect nonsense, for you to take up so much house-room. The house is arranged just right for two families, and it is too bad to be so extravagant. You could live in the east half, if you must keep house, and rent the other part for a dollar a week. It is quite large enough—quite." "I don't think so," answered Aunt Hannah, quietly. "I like my house to myself and I never yet saw the roof large enough to cover two families." "Then there is that cow," continued Art Weightman, disregarding the interruption, "Where is the sense of your keeping a cow?" "To give milk," answered Aunt Hannah.