She did not wait for an answer, but went away to see after her room, moving with a quiet step, which contrasted with Hannah’s abrupt dashes to and fro. The old farmer watched her then, and on her return, with a curious interest. The old half-dead affections for his eldest daughter seemed to be slowly returning. “Yes, it’s good to have our Polly back,” he muttered now and then.
Marian appeared to have strangely little to say about her long absence. Perhaps the fact that she could tell few particulars without bringing in William’s name was a restraint. One matter after another came up, and events were mentioned at intervals, but there was no outpouring. She seemed placidly happy to be at home again, and her eyes continually strayed in the direction of Jervis. Hannah’s brusqueness glanced harmlessly off the shield of her calm content.
Supper, usually a meal partaken of in dead silence, was broken thus by fitful conversation. Marian took her position at once as daughter of the house—not as eldest daughter. Hannah could not after these years be dispossessed of her leading place in the household.
When supper was over, Hannah disappeared, and John Cairns gradually nodded himself off into profound slumber. The little parlor was very hot, but not too hot for Jervis. He had placed himself on the other side of the fire, and Marian came near him, taking a seat slightly in the shade. She did not wish to have the light full upon her face, while putting one or two questions of which her mind was full.
“How did you get here from the station?” Jervis asked.
“I walked. My box is there, till we send for it.” Jervis was about to answer, but Marian could endure no farther delay.
“I want to know about the people in the neighborhood,” she said before he could speak. “The friends we used to have.”
“We have no friends now, Polly. Father and Hannah have sheered off from everybody.”
“Because of William?”
“Yes; and—since mother’s death.”