The Visit

Mrs. Graham reclined upon a softly-cushioned sofa, her tasteful lace
morning-cap half falling from her head, and her rich cashmere gown
flowing open, so as to reveal the flounced cambric skirt which her
sewing-girl had sat up till midnight to finish. A pair of delicate
French slippers pinched rather than graced her fat feet, one of which
angrily beat the carpet, as if keeping time to its mistress' thoughts.
Nervous and uncomfortable was the lady of Woodlawn this morning, for she
had just passed through a little conjugal scene with her husband, whom
she had called a _brute_, lamenting the dispensation of Providence which
took from her "her beloved Sir Arthur, who always thought whatever she
said was right," and ending by throwing herself in the most theatrical
manner upon the sofa in the parlor, where, with both her blood and
temper at a boiling heat, she lay, when her waiting-maid, but recently
purchased, announced the approach of a carriage.

"Mercy," exclaimed the distressed lady, "whose is it? I hope no one
will ask for me."

"Reckon how it's Marster Livingstone's carriage, 'case thar's Tom on the
box," answered the girl, who had her own private reason for knowing Tom
at any distance.

"Mrs. Livingstone, I'll venture to say," groaned Mrs. Graham, burying
her lace cap and flaxen hair still farther in the silken cushions.
"Just because I stopped there a few days last summer, she thinks she
must run here every week; and there's no way of escaping her. Do shut
that blind; it lets in so much light. There, would you think I'd been
crying?"