James Mitchell is a man of no accomplishments and no employment. Long ago he was a bootblack who persuaded Father’s sister to marry him. It’s one thing for Grandfather to admire the democratic spirit of the American revolutionaries. It’s quite another to see his daughter elope against his explicit command, and marry so far beneath her. Grandfather immediately disinherited her and, until this night, he hasn’t spoken a word to her. Nor will he again.

They will soon learn that, sometime during that terrible visit to England, before Henry had fallen ill, Father had gone secretly to see his sister. Distressed by her circumstances, the extreme poverty and the abusive, drunken husband, he’d given her enough money to bring herself and her children to Maryland. This money came with the specific proviso that her husband not be one of the party. This money was meant for Jane Mitchell’s escape.

Obviously, Aunt Mitchell has ignored these instructions. They made it to New York on Father’s money, but arrived as paupers, with no luggage and no provision. On they came, sometimes on foot and sometimes on charity in a passing coach or wagon, to Baltimore. There, their only clothing in rags, they’d applied to the local theater company and, on the strength of Father’s name, got the bits of costumes they are wearing plus directions to the farm.

Mother opens the door and lets them all into the house. The seven strange children have runny noses and blistered feet. Drops of rain are beaded on their greasy hair and streaking their cheeks. They smell awful.

Uncle Mitchell looks around at the cramped room, the dirt floor, the low ceiling. Even in charitable candlelight, the shabbiness is undeniable. He holds a candle in front of a picture on the wall, makes a show of looking it over—a barnyard scene, a boy feeding a horse from his hand. The rain taps lightly at first, then louder and faster on the roof. “Where will we all sleep?” he asks.

First they eat. They fall on whatever cold food and stale bread remains in the pantry and complain that there’s no meat. “In the morning,” Uncle Mitchell says, “I’ll kill a couple of your chickens.”

“You can’t do that,” June tells him.

“Don’t contradict your elders and betters,” Uncle Mitchell says. “I’ll do as I please.” There is no more conversation.