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a high oak panelling. Glazed Dutch tiles covered the walls
with a design of blue nosegays on a white ground. The
fireplace was set with burned bricks, and a chest of drawers
had been placed before it as a screen against the draught
that came in whenever the door was opened. A polished
oak table with two rounded leaves hanging almost to the
floor, a few high-backed chairs with seats of leather worn
shiny, and a small green cupboard set high on the wall—that
was all there was in the parlor.
As Erik Grubbe sat there in the dusk, his housekeeper,
Anne Jensdaughter, entered, carrying in one hand a lighted
candle and in the other a mug of milk, warm from the
udder. Placing the mug before him, she seated herself at
the table. One large red hand still held the candlestick,
and as she turned it round and round, numerous rings and
large brilliants glittered on her fingers.
“Alack-a-day!” she groaned.
“What now?” asked Erik Grubbe, glancing up.
“Sure, I may well be tired after stewing ’roun’ till I’ve
neither stren’th nor wit left.”
“Well, ’tis busy times. Folks have to work up heat in
summer to sit in all winter.”
“Busy—ay, but there’s reason in everythin’. Wheels in
ditch an’ coach in splinters’s no king’s drivin’, say I. None
but me to do a thing! The indoor wenches ’re nothin’ but
draggle-tails,—sweethearts an’ town-talk’s all they think
of. Ef they do a bit o’ work, they boggle it, an’ it’s fer me
to do over. Walbor’s sick, an’ Stina an’ Bo’l—the sluts
—they pother an’ pother till the sweat comes, but naught
else comes o’t. I might ha’ some help from M’ree, ef you’d
speak to her, but you won’t let her put a finger to
anything.”
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