On Friday morning, Miss Hepsy received a brief note from Mr.
Goldthwaite, stating that he had attended the funeral of Mrs. Hurst,
paid the little she had owed in Newhaven, and would be at Pendlepoint
by the noon cars that day, when he requested Miss Hepsy to be in
waiting at the depot to meet her nephew and niece.
Now, Friday was Miss Hepsy's cleaning day. Although ordinary eyes
would have been puzzled to point out what spot in that shining domain
required more than the touch of a duster, the house was upturned from
ceiling to basement, and received such sweeping and dusting and
polishing, such scouring and scrubbing, that it was a marvel Miss
Hepsy was not exhausted at the end of it. She had just turned out the
parlour chairs into the lobby, and was busy with broom and dust-pan,
sweeping up invisible dust, when Ebenezer brought her Mr.
Goldthwaite's letter. So much did it upset her, that he had to depart
without his glass of cider, for she took no more notice of him than
if he had been one of the pillars at the door. It was eleven o'clock
almost; it would take her every moment to dress and be at the depot
in time; so she had to set the chairs back into the half-swept room,
replace her working garb by the green dress and the plaid shawl, take
her blue umbrella and trudge off, leaving the management of the
dinner to Keziah. Her frame of mind as she did so augured ill for the
welcome of her sister's children.
The cars were half an hour late, and Miss Hepsy strode up and down
the platform in a ferment of wrath and impatience, thinking of the
dinner under awkward Keziah's supervision; of the sweeping and
dusting and baking all to be done in the afternoon; of the bother two
strange children were sure to be; of a hundred and one things, which
brought her temper up to fever heat by the time the train puffed into
the depot. From the window of a first-class compartment two faces
looked out eagerly, but failed to recognize in Miss Hepsy the sister
of the dear dead mother they had so lately lost. Miss Hepsy saw Mr,
Goldthwaite step out first, followed by a tall, handsome-looking boy,
well dressed and refined-looking, who in his turn assisted with care
and tenderness a slight, delicate-looking girl, who bore such a
strong resemblance to her dead mother that her aunt had no difficulty
in recognizing her. She stamped forward, nodded to Mr. Goldthwaite,
and held out a hand in turn to each of the children.
"I'm tired to death waitin' on these pesky cars," she said,
addressing herself to Mr. Goldthwaite. "I hope they've behaved
themselves, sir, an' not bothered ye.--Bless me, children, don't
stare at me so; I'm your Aunt Hepzibah. You look as if you had never
seen a woman afore."
"There is a trunk, Miss Hepsy," said Mr. Goldthwaite, unable to help
an amused smile playing about his mouth. "You will need to send a
cart for it.--They have been very good children indeed, and instead
of bothering, have greatly helped to make my journey enjoyable."
"I'm glad to hear it, I'm sure," said Miss Hepsy, looking very much
as if she was not glad at all. "Well, I guess we'd better be
movin'.--What's your name, boy?" she said, turning to the lad with an
abruptness which made him start.
"My name is Tom, aunt," he answered promptly; "this is Lucy."
"Miss Hetty might have called one of ye after her own kin.--Well,
good-day, Mr. Goldthwaite; I guess Josh'll walk down to the parsonage
at night an' pay up.--Come along."
"Good-bye, Tom, good-bye, Lucy, in the meantime," said the minister
kindly. "We shall see each other often, I fancy."
"Oh, sir, I hope so," said Lucy, speaking for the first time. "You
have been so kind to us when we had nobody else." Her dark eyes
suddenly overflowed, and she turned away to follow her aunt, while
Tom, whistling to vent some strong feeling, went on in front.
Miss Hepsy walked as if for a wager, and never opened her mouth once,
until they stood upon the threshold of Thankful Rest.
"Now, look here; this is yer home," she said; then, fixing grim eyes
alternately on their faces, "an' I hope ye'll behave, an' show yer
gratitude for it. That's all.--I bet Keziah's burned the soup;" with
which words Miss Hepsy burst into the kitchen, ready to extinguish
the unfortunate "help" if everything was not up to the mark. The
brother and sister lingered a moment on the threshold, feeling new
and strange and sad, their welcome had been so disappointing.
"Lucy," said Tom Hurst suddenly, "do you believe that woman's mamma's
sister? I don't."
"Of course she is," returned Lucy. "And you must not call her 'that
woman,' Tom; she is our aunt, mamma's sister, you know, and we must
behave, she says."
Tom made a wry face. "I don't feel like behaving any," he said. "But
I say, Lucy, isn't this a prime place?"
Lucy's eyes beamed as they looked round the pretty, peaceful
homestead, with its laden orchard, wealth of flowers and glorious
summer beauty. But she did not answer.
"We'd better go in, I suppose, though we weren't asked," said Tom. "I
wonder if it's near dinner-time; I'm famished."
He pushed open the door, and, followed by Lucy, entered the
wide-bricked kitchen. 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. I don't
approve of eating 'tween meals.--I guess you never did any of this
kind o' work, Lucy?"
"No, Aunt Hepsy," returned Lucy timidly. "I've seen Hannah do it;
that was our girl."
"Humph; ye won't be long here before ye can pare potatoes as well as
Hannah. You'll be willin' to learn, I hope?"
"I shall do my best, Aunt Hepsy," returned the girl meekly.
"Mamma never pared potatoes, Aunt Hepsy," said Tom boldly.
"No; I know she didn't, boy," said Miss Hepsy severely. "Your mother
was as useless as a bit o' Sunday china.--I hope you won't be like
her, Lucy."
"I hope she will, Aunt Hepsy," spoke up Tom again. "Mamma was
perfectly splendid, everybody said."
"You'd better go outside, boy," said Miss Hepsy wrathfully, "till you
learn to speak respectfully to your aunt. I know what your mother
was. She was my own sister, I hope."
Tom caught up his cap and fled, nothing loath; his aunt irritated
him, and made him forget himself.
"How old are you, child?" said Miss Hepsy, turning to Lucy, after a
moment's silence.
"I am fourteen past, Aunt Hepsy; Tom is twelve."
Miss Hepsy dropped her paring-knife and stared.
"Bless me, child, you don't look more'n nine, and that great boy
looks years older'n you. What have ye fed on?"
Lucy smiled faintly. "I have not been very strong this summer, Aunt
Hepsy; and I was so anxious about mamma being so poorly. I couldn't
sleep at nights, nor eat anything hardly. I suppose that's what made
me thin." Miss Hepsy sniffed.
"Have any of ye been to school?" was her next question.
"No, Aunt Hepsy. Papa taught us till he died, and then mamma kept up
our lessons as well as she could. Tom is a good scholar; and, oh,
such a beautiful painter!"
"Painter!" echoed Miss Hepsy. "What, fence rails and gates?"
Lucy looked very much shocked. "Oh no; he draws landscapes and
things, and went to the Art School as long as mamma could afford it.
Then he practised at home. He means to be a great painter some day,
like the ones he read about."
"Humph!" said Miss Hepsy contemptuously. "I guess his uncle'll find
him work in painting the farm an' the gates afresh this fall. It'll
save a man. Now then, there's them taters on. Come upstairs an' I'll
show you your room."
Lucy rose at once, and obediently followed her aunt along the wide
flagged passage and up the polished oak steps to a tiny little
chamber in the attic fiat. It was poorly furnished, but it was
scrupulously clean; and from the window Lucy's delighted eyes caught
a glimpse of the broad green meadow, the shining water of the river,
and beyond, the houses of the town nestling in the shadow of the
giant slopes of Pendle Peak.
"Your brother's room is on t'other side o' the landing," explained
Miss Hepsy; "an' I'll 'spect you to keep 'em both as clean's a new
pin. I'm mighty partickler, mind, an' can't abide untidiness. An' if
yer mother's brought ye up to think yersel' a lady, the sooner ye get
rid of that notion the better, 'cos yell have to work here; we don't
keep no idle hands. Get off your hat an' cape now, an' come down as
fast's ye like, an' help set the table for dinner."
Miss Hepsy then whisked out of the room, and clattered down the
stairs in haste.
Lucy moved to the window recess, and stood looking upon the peace and
beauty without, until her eyes were brimming with tears. Then she
knelt down by the side of the bed, sobbing pitifully, "Mamma, mamma!
come back, O dear mamma! we have nobody on earth but you!"