Standing in the back door of Sheba's cabin one could see the red gables of the old Chadwick house, rising above the dark pine-trees that surrounded it.

A wealthy city family by the name of Haven owned it now.
It was open only during the summer months.

The roses that Mistress Alice had set out with her own white hands years ago climbed all over the front of the house, twining around its tall pillars, and hanging down in festoons from its stately eaves.

Cuttings from the same hardy plant had been trained along the fences, around the tree-trunks and over trellises, until the place had come to be known all around the country as "Rosehaven." Sheba always had steady employment when the place was open, for the young ladies of the family kept her flat-irons busy with their endless tucks and ruffles.

She found a good market, too, for all the eggs she could induce her buff cochins to lay, and all the berries that she could make John Jay pick.
This bright June morning she stood in the door with a basket of fresh eggs in her hand, looking anxiously across the fields to the gables of Rosehaven, and grumbling to herself.
"Heah I done promise Miss Hallie these fresh aigs for her bufday cake, an' no way to get 'em to her.