Her
marriage had been a disappointment to her, for her husband, a pleasant,
good-looking fellow, had turned out an idler; her children, with the
exception of Archie, the youngest, had never filled the vacancy in her
life; but in her devotion to flowers there was something of the ecstasy
and all of the self-abandonment she had missed in her human relations.
As he sat down at the table, the miller nodded carelessly to his
brothers, who, having finished their bacon and cornbread, were waiting
patiently until the buckwheat cakes should be ready. The coloured
servant was never allowed to cook because, as Sarah said, "she could not
abide niggers' ways," and Blossom, standing before the stove, with her
apron held up to shield her face, was turning the deliciously browning
cakes with a tin cake lifter.
"Ain't they done yet, daughter?" asked Abner in his amiable drawling
voice. He was a silent, brooding man, heavily built, with a coarse
reddish beard, stained with tobacco juice, which hung over his chest.
Since the death of his wife, Blossom's mother, some fifteen years
before, he had become more gloomy, more silent, more obstinately
unapproachable.
Pages:
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76