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A sudden change had taken place in Aunt Hepsy's appearance. In the twinkling of an eye she had donned her working garb again, and was paring potatoes at the table. Fortunately, the dinner had progressed satisfactorily during her absence. "Come in and sit down," she said, pointing to the settle at the fire. "Ye'll be hungry, I reckon; but it'll soon be dinner-time.
Under Miss Hepsy's directions, Lucy succeeded in washing up the dishes without disaster, and was then requested to come to the far parlour and receive a lesson in sweeping and dusting. Then baking came on, and with one thing and another Miss Hepsy managed to keep the child within doors and on her feet till past four o'clock.
There are some pretty chickens and kittens at Aunt Hepsy's, but she won't let me pet them." In the delight of examining Miss Goldthwaite's menagerie sadder thoughts flew, and the evening sped on golden wings. The time came at last for the two to bid a regretful good-bye to the parsonage and turn their faces homewards.
Tom nodded, and the two proceeded to the house. Lucy was downstairs by this time, awkwardly placing knives, forks, and plates on the table, under Miss Hepsy's directions. A glad smile crept to her eyes at sight of Tom; it seemed ages since he had gone out.
At four o'clock the doctor came again. Save for the almost imperceptible breathing, Lucy lay so pale and still that they almost thought her dead. At sunset she moved uneasily, and with a great sigh lifted her heavy lids and looked round the room. A sob burst from Aunt Hepsy's lips, and Carrie Goldthwaite's tears fell fast, for Dr. Gair's face said she was saved.
There was no fear but a great deal of determination in Hepsy's voice, and there was the sound of her bare feet spatting on the floor. The man's footsteps retreated hurriedly. Jean heard the kitchen door open and slam shut with a shrill squeal of its rusty hinges, and the sound of a man running down the path.
"How many more times am I to say out with it?" she said angrily. "I'll let you feel the weight of my hand if you don't look sharp." "It's mine, Aunt Hepsy. I won't let you see it," he said doggedly. Miss Hepsy's face grew very red, and she flung her knitting on the rug and strode up to him. "Give me that paper." "Well, there 'tis; I hope you like it.
She seemed to dimly remember that during the days of the past week a face like Aunt Hepsy's had bent over her in love and tenderness, and a voice like hers, only infinitely softer and gentler, had spoken broken words of grief and prayer at her bedside. Aunt Hepsy, just yet, did not meet Lucy's wondering eyes, nor speak any words to her at all.
"He was always readin', when he wasn't goin' fishin' or off in the woods with his gun, and never made no trouble, and was about the easiest man to get along with she ever see. You mind your business and he'll mind his'n." That was the sum of Aunt Hepsy's delivery about the recluse, though no doubt her old age was enriched by constant "study" over his probable history and character.
The door was a little ajar, and Aunt Hepsy peered in. Lucy was undressed and sitting at the window, her arms on the dressing-table, and her whole frame shaking with sobs. Once or twice Aunt Hepsy heard the word "Mamma." The passion of grief and longing in the girl's voice made something come into Aunt Hepsy's throat, and she slipped noiselessly downstairs.
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