Instead of the threadbare Brussels
carpet patterned with huge bouquets of flowers, there was a striped rag
carpet. There were a few rush-bottomed chairs, a box draped with red
calico on which stood a water-bucket and a wash-pan, a cook-stove before
the fireplace, and in the middle of the room a table covered with a red
cloth, on which was set forth a supper of coffee, corn-cakes, fried
bacon, and cold cabbage and potatoes. A fat, freckle-faced girl, a
little larger than Anne, and two boys of about twelve and fourteen were
seated at the supper-table. Beside the stove stood a stout, fair woman
in a soiled gingham apron. Their four pairs of wide-open, light-blue
eyes stared at Anne.
"Where you pick up that child, Peter Collins?" demanded the woman,
neglecting her frying cakes.
"She jes' come to the door," responded Mr. Collins.
"My sakes!" exclaimed his wife. "Whose child is you? Whar you come from,
here after dark, this way?"
"Where's Aunt Charity?" asked Anne.
"Aunt Charity? Don't no Aunt Charity live here. This is Mr. Collins's
house,--Peter Collins. Is you lost?--Peter, you Peter Collins! I want
know who on earth this child is you done brung here.
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