She ran downstairs, and along the gravel-path.

He was a little man, square-built, and looking as if he had worn to toughness; with an evident Sunday suit on: black, and black gloves, though the day was only antecedent to Sunday.
"Let me help you, sir," she said, and her hands came in contact with his, and were squeezed.
"How is my sister ?" She had no longer any fear in asking.
"Now, you let me through, first," he replied, imitating an arbitrary juvenile.

"You're as tight locked in as if you was in dread of all the thieves of London.

You ain't afraid o' me, miss?
I'm not the party generally outside of a fortification; I ain't, I can assure you.

I'm a defence party, and a reg'lar lion when I've got the law backing me." He spoke in a queer, wheezy voice, like a cracked flute, combined with the effect of an ill-resined fiddle-bow.
"You are in the garden of Queen Anne's Farm," said Rhoda.
"And you're my pretty little niece, are you?
'the darkie lass,' as your father says.