And again she went back to examine the cabinet, and I followed her, listening with interest while she pointed out the maker's sign carved here and there upon the doors and drawers, and the peculiar beauty of the steel hinges and locks. This little incident diverted my mind and put me into better spirits, and when Rosamond came to call us to supper, I was ready to meet her with a smile. The meal was served in another room from that we had seen before—a high-arched room with a gallery crossing one end, which was situated—so Rosamond told me—in the older part of the house, and was formerly the great hall. The meal was well served, and seemed wonderfully abundant, though I was growing accustomed to English profusion in the matter of eating and drinking. I could not but admire the white, glossy sheen of the damask cloth and napkins, and the beautiful china dishes, more beautiful than any I had ever seen. China collecting was a great passion then, and my aunt in London would have given one of her little pink ears for the curious standard dish full of early strawberries which adorned the supper table, or the tall jug crowned with frothy whipped cream beside it. We young ones were more or less silent, of course, while my mother and my Aunt Amy talked about old times, and who was dead, and whose son had married which one's daughter, and all the rest of the chat which goes on when old neighbors come together. My dear mother was—no disparagement to her either—a bit of a gossip; though, as we had few friends among our French neighbors, she had had little opportunity of indulging her tastes; but now she grew more animated and interested than I had ever seen her, in hearing all the news my Aunt Amy had to tell. "And what about our cousins at Stanton?" asked my mother presently. "From what Andrew tells me, I suppose the present lady is not much like the one I knew." "No more than chalk is like cream cheese," answered Aunt Amy. "Yet she is a good lady, too, and a kind stepmother to the lad who is left, though she had two daughters of her own when she married my lord." "And what like are they?" "Nay, that you must ask Andrew. He has seen more of them than I have." "Theo is well enough," said Andrew. "She is a merry girl, who cares not much for anything but pleasure and finery, but she is good-natured at least. Martha is a girl of another stamp. I pity the man who marries her. She hath far more mind than Theo, but such a temper! Disagree with her ever so little—do but dare to like what she hates or know something she does not—and she is your enemy for life." "Gently, gently, my son," said his mother, with a little laugh. "What hath poor Martha done to you?" "Nothing to me, mother, but I have seen enough of her doings to others. I believe there is but one person in the world she stands in awe of—her mother—and but one she loves—her half-brother, the young lord. I do think she cares for him."