“She wore a muslin dress and a coral necklace, you know,” said Virginia, in the same low tone, “and she had only a knitted shawl over her head when she met Jack Montjoy at the end of the drive. He wrapped her in his cape, and they rode like mad to the town--and she was laughing! Uncle Shadrach met them in the road, and he says he heard her laughing in the wind. She must have been very wicked, mustn't she, Betty?” But Betty was looking into the storm, and did not answer. “I wonder if he were in the least like Dan,” she murmured a moment later. “Well, he had black hair, and Dan has that,” responded Virginia, lightly; “and he had a square chin, and Dan has that, too. Oh, every one says that Dan's the image of his father, except for the Lightfoot eyes. I'm glad he has the Lightfoot eyes, anyway. Are you ready to go down?” Betty was ready, though her face had grown a little grave, and with a last look at the glass, they caught hands and went sedately down the winding stair. In the hall below they met Mrs. Lightfoot, who sent Virginia into the panelled parlour, and bore Betty off to the kitchen to taste the sauce for the plum pudding. “I can't do a thing on earth with Rhody,” she remarked uneasily, throwing a knitted scarf over her head as they went from the back porch along the covered way that led to the brick kitchen. “She insists that yours is the only palate in all the country she will permit to pass judgment upon her sauce. I made the Major try it, and he thinks it needs a dash more of rum, but Rhody says she shan't be induced to change it until she has had your advice. Here, Rhody, open the door; I've brought your young lady.” The door swung back with a jerk upon the big kitchen, where before the Christmas turkeys toasting on the spit, Aunt Rhody was striding to and fro like an Amazon in charcoal. From the beginning of the covered way they had been guided by the tones of penetrant contempt, with which she lashed the circle of house servants who had gathered to her assistance. “You des lemme alont now,” was the advice she royally offered. “Ef you gwine ax me w'at you'd better do, I des tell you right now, you'd better lemme alont. Ca'line, you teck yo' eyes off dat ar roas' pig, er I'll fling dis yer b'ilin' lard right spang on you. I ain' gwine hev none er my cookin' conjured fo' my ve'y face. Congo, you shet dat mouf er yourn, er I'll shet hit wid er flat-iron, en den hit'll be shet ter stay.” Then, as Mrs. Lightfoot and Betty came in, she broke off, and wiped her large black hands on her apron, before she waved with pride to the shelves and tables bending beneath her various creations. “I'se done stuff dat ar pig so full er chestnuts dat he's fitten ter bus',” she exclaimed proudly. “Lawd, Lawd, hit's a pity he ain' 'live agin des ter tase hese'f!” “Poor little pig,” said Betty, “he looks so small and pink, Aunt Rhody, I don't see how you have the heart to roast him.”