For a few days we lingered at my mother’s fireside, and then, with the fall of the first snowflake, we left for our southern home; Richard promising¹ my mother, who was loth to give me up, that when the summer birds came back and roses were blooming again by the door, he would bring his Rose to breathe once more the air of her native hills. We stopped at New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore and Washington, and it was not until the holidays were passed that we landed at last at Charleston and took the cars for W—— which we reached about dark.

 

With a loud cry of joy, Bill, who was waiting for us, welcomed back his master, and then almost crushing my fingers in his big black hand, said, with a sly wink², which he meant should be very expressive³, “I know, now what mass’r kill dem hosses for!” at the same time making some apology for the really sorry looking animals he was compelled to drive in the place of the deceased Ferdinand and Frederic. As we drove through the town I could not help contrasting my present feelings with those of the year before, when I thought I was leaving it forever. Then, weary, sick and wretched, I had looked through blinding tears towards Sunny Bank, which was now my home, while at my side, with his arm around me, was its owner—my husband.

 

359“You tremble, Rose,” said he, as we drew near the house, and he bade me be calmer, saying the meeting between myself and his sister would soon be over.

 

But it was not that which I dreaded⁴. It was the presentation to his servants, to whom I bore the formidable relation of mistress, and for whose good opinion I cared far more than I did for that of the haughty⁵ Mrs. Lansing. Something like this I said to Richard, who assured me that his household would love me because I was his wife, if for no other reason, and thus I found it to be. As we drove into the yard, we were surprised at seeing the house brilliantly lighted, while through the open windows forms of many persons were seen moving to and fro.

 

In a displeased

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