re home-like and less shoppy, as Mrs. Franklin said
every night, as she straightened things out, and peered through the
window or looked from the front door, and wondered if "Abram weren't
later than usual," though she knew right well he was punctual as
clock-work,--good clock-work too,--when he was going to his toil or
hurrying back to his home.

Pleasant little rooms, with the cleanest and brightest of rag carpets on
the floor; a paper on the walls, cheap enough, but gay with scarlet
rosebuds and green leaves, rivalled by the vines and berries on the
pretty chintz curtains; chairs of a dozen ages and patterns, but all of
them with open, inviting countenances and a hospitable air; a wood fire
that _looked_ like a wood fire crackling and sparkling on the hearth,
shining and dancing over the ceiling and the floor and the walls,
cutting queer capers with the big rocking-chair,--which turned into a
giant with long arms,--and with the little figures on the mantel-shelf,
and the books in their cases, softening and glorifying the two grand
faces hanging in their frames opposite, and giving just light enough
below them to let you read "John Brown" and "Phillips," if you had any
occasion to read, and did not know those whom the world knows; and first
and last, and through all, as if it loved her, and was loath to part
with her for a moment, whether she poked the flame, or straightened a
chair, or went out towards the little kitchen to lift a lid and smell a
most savory stew, or came back to the supper-table to arrange and
rearrange what was already faultless in its cleanliness and simplicity,
wherever she went and whatever she did, this firelight fell warm about a
woman, large and comfortable and handsome, with a motherly look to her
person, and an expression that was all kindness in her comely face and
dark, soft eyes,--eyes and face and form, though, that might as well
have had "Pariah" written all over them, and "leper" stamped on their
front, for any good, or beauty, or grace, that people could find in
them; for the comely face was a dark face, and the voice, singing an old
Methodist hymn, was no Anglo-Saxon treble, but an Anglo-African voice,
rich and mellow, with the touch of pathos or sorrow always heard in
these tones.

"There!" she said, "there he is!" as a step, hasty yet halting, was
heard on the pavement; and, turning up the light, she ran quickly to
open the door, which, to be sure, was unfastened, and to give the