"Grandmother, yes; Faith will be here in a minute. This is Andrew's cousin, his dead uncle's child, Philemon Henry."
"And she said her name was—a posy of some sort; I forget. They used to take posies to meetings, sweet marjoram and rosemary. And there was fennel. It was a long while ago. Why did Philemon Henry die?"
Primrose looked at her curiously.
"That was my own father," she said with a feeling that these people had no right of real ownership in him, except Andrew.
Aunt Lois came out, and taking her mother's hand, said, "Come and have some supper." Then, turning to Primrose, "I hope thou art in a better humor, child. It does not speak well for town training that thou shouldst fly in such a passion with thy elders."
"Who was in a passion?" repeated grandmother with a parrot-like intonation. "Not one of the Lord's people I hope?"
"Silence, mother!"
Lois Henry spoke in a low tone but with a certain decision. She was like a child and had to be governed in that manner. They were all taking their places at the table, Lois at the head and Rachel next to grandmother on the other side, then Faith and Primrose. Opposite the workmen were ranged, Andrew with one on either hand. The colored help had a table in the kitchen. This was the only distinction the Henrys made.
Lois Henry accepted the burthen of a half demented mother with a quiet resignation. In her serene faith she never inquired why a capable and devoted Christian woman should have her mind darkened and be made comparatively helpless while physical strength remained, though it was a matter of some perplexity why her sister should have been taken and her mother left.
The master's seat at the foot of the table was vacant. Lois would have it so. It seemed as if they were only waiting for him.