as soon as the mistress had left the house, till and her daughter nancy fell to and began to give her bedroom a thorough cleaning; pushed the bed out from the wall, and washed the closet floors. all the windows were opened, and the rugs before the wash-basin stand and the dressing-table were carried into the back yard and beaten.

after nancy had pinned a clean antimacassar on the back of the wheel-chair and put the mistress’s slippers ready at the foot of it, her mother said they might as well “give the parlour a lick” before the carriage got back.

the two women, their heads tied up in red cotton handkerchiefs, went into the parlour and rolled up the green paper shades, painted with garden scenes and fountains. the sunlight streamed into the room. the parlour was long in shape, not square, with a low ceiling, the brick fireplace in the middle, under a wide mantel shelf. horsehair chairs and sofas sat about with tidies on their backs and arms. captain dodderidge’s old mahogany desk filled one corner. every inch of the floor was covered by a heavy wilton carpet, figured with pink roses and green leaves. it was somewhat worn, as it had been “brought over” by sapphira’s mother when she first came out to virginia. upon this carpet the two brooms went swiftly to work.

the room had an air of settled comfort and stability; visitors sensed that at once. the deep-set windows made one feel the thickness of the walls. a child could climb up into one of those windows and make a playhouse. every afternoon mrs. colbert was brought into the parlour and sat here for several hours before supper. here she could watch the light of the sinking sun burn on the great cedars that grew along the farther side of the creek, across from the mill. in winter weather, when the snow was falling over the flower garden and the hedges, that long room, with its six windows and its warm hearth, was a pleasant place to be.

with nancy at one end and till at the other, the parlour was soon swept. till never dawdled over her work. the housekeeper at chestnut hill had taught her that the shuffling foot was the mark of an inferior race. after the sweeping came the dusting.

“now, nancy, run and fetch me a kitchen chair and a clean soft rag. i want to git at the po’traits, which i didn’t have time to do last week.” any other servant on the place would have stepped coolly on one of the fat horsehair chair-bottoms, — if, indeed, she had thought it worth while to dust the pictures at all, now that the mistress could no longer reach up and run her fingers along the frames.

when the wooden chair was brought, till mounted and wiped, first the canvases, then their heavy gilt frames. her daughter stood gazing up at them: master and mistress twenty years ago. mistress in a garnet velvet gown and real lace, wearing her long earrings and a garnet necklace: a vigorous young woman with chestnut hair and a high colour in her cheeks. the master in a stock and broadcloth coat, his bushy black hair standing up as it often did now, his face broad and ruddy; he had changed very little. nancy thought these pictures wonderful. she hoped the painter was really her father, as some folks said. old jezebel, her great-grandmother, had whispered to her that was why she had straight black hair with no kink in it.

anyway, nancy knew uncle jeff wasn’t her father, though she always called him “pappy” and treated him with respect. her mother had no children by uncle jeff, and fat lizzie, the cook, had left nancy in no doubt as to the reason. when nancy was a little girl, lizzie had coaxed her off into the bushes one sunday to help her pick gooseberries. there she told her how miss sapphy had married till off to jeff because he was a “capon man.” the child was puzzled, and thought this meant that jeff had come from somewhere up on the capon river. but lizzie made the facts quite clear. miss sapphy didn’t want a lady’s maid to be “havin’ chillun all over de place, — always a-carryin’ or a-nussin’ ’em.” so she married till off to jeff and “made it wuth her while, the niggers reckoned.” till got the light end of the work and the best of everything. and lizzie didn’t believe that talk about the painter man; she told nancy that one of mr. henry’s brothers was her real father. from that day nancy had felt a horror of lizzie. she tried not to show it, but lizzie knew, and she got back at the stuck-up piece whenever she had a chance. she set her own daughter, bluebell, to spy on till’s girl.

nancy had never asked till who her father was. she admired her mother and took pride in what she called her mother’s “nice ways.” the girl had a natural delicacy of feeling. ugly sights and ugly words sickened her. she had till’s good manners — with something warmer and more alive. but she was not courageous. when the servants were gossiping at their midday dinner in the big kitchen, if she sensed a dirty joke coming, she slipped away from the table and ran off into the garden. if she felt a reprimand coming, she sometimes lied: lied before she had time to think, or to tell herself that she would be found out in the end. she caught at any pretext to keep off blame or punishment for an hour, a minute. she didn’t tell falsehoods deliberately, to get something she wanted; it was always to escape from something.

nancy was startled out of her reflections about her mysterious father by her mother’s voice.

“now, honey, if i was you, i’d make a nice egg-nog when you hear the carriage comin’, an’ i’d carry it in to the mistress when she’s got out of the coach an’ into her room. i’d take it to her on the small silvah salvah, with a white napkin and some cold biscuit.”

nancy caught her breath, and looked downcast. “lizzie, she don’t like to have me meddlin’ round the kitchen to do anything.”

“i’ll be out around the kitchen, an’ lizzie dassent say anything to me. an’ if i was you, i wouldn’t carry a tray to missus with no haing-dawg look. i’d smile, an’ look happy to serve her, an’ she’ll smile back.”

nancy shook her head. her slender hands dropped limp at her side. “no she won’t, mudder,” very low.

“yes she will, if you smile right, an’ don’t go shiverin’ like a drownded kitten. in all loudoun county miss sapphy was knowed for her good mannahs, an’ that she knowed how to treat all folks in their degree.”

the daughter hesitated, but did not answer. for nearly a year now she had seemed to have no degree, and her mistress had treated her like an untrustworthy stranger. before that, ever since she could remember, miss sapphy had been very kind to her, had liked her and had shown it. as they were leaving the parlour, nancy murmured, more to herself than to her mother:

“i knows that fat lizzie’s at the bottom of it, somehow. she’s always got a pick on me.”