They
talked hardly at all, but Mrs. Barclay said when she got to Mrs.
Marx's, that the walk had been delightful.

At Mrs. Marx's all was in holiday perfection of order; though that was
the normal condition of things, indeed, where that lady ruled. The
paint of the floors was yellow and shining; the carpets were thick and
bright; the table was set with great care; the great chimney in the
upper kitchen where the supper was prepared, was magnificent with its
blazing logs. So was a lesser fireplace in the best parlour, where the
guests were first received; but supper was ready, and they adjourned to
the next room. There the table invited them most hospitably, loaded
with dainties such as people in the country can get at Christmas time.
One item of the entertainment not usual at Christmas time was a roast
pig; its brown and glossy back making a very conspicuous object at one
side of the board.

"I thought I'd surprise you all," remarked the satisfied hostess; for
she knew the pig was done to a turn; "and anything you don't expect
tastes twice as good. I knew ma' liked pig better'n anything; and I
think myself it's about the top sheaf. I suppose nothin' can be a
surprise to Mrs. Barclay."

"Why do you suppose so?" asked that lady.

"I thought you'd seen everything there was in the world, and a little
more."

"Never saw a roast pig before in my life. But I have read of them."

"Read of them!" exclaimed their hostess. "In a cook-book, likely?"

"Alas! I never read a cook-book."

"No more didn't I; but you'll excuse me, I didn't believe you carried
it all in your head, like we folks."

"I have not a bit of it in my head, if you mean the art of cookery. I
have a profound respect for it; but I know nothing about it whatever."

"Well, you're right to have a respect for it. Uncle Tim, do you just
give Mrs. Barclay some of the best of that pig, and let us see how she
likes it. And the stuffing, uncle Tim, and the gravy; and plenty of the
crackle. Mother, it's done just as you used to do it."

Mrs. Barclay meanwhile surveyed the company. Mrs. Armadale sat at the
end of the table; placid and pleasant as always, though to Mrs. Barclay
her aspect had somewhat of the severe. She did not smile much, yet she
looked kindly over her assembled children. Uncle Tim was her brother;
Uncle Tim Hotchkiss. He had the so frequent New England mingling of the
shrewd and the benevolent in his face; and he was a much more jolly
personage t