“I must say that thou ought to hev learned how to manage them by this time. It is all of twenty-seven years since Antony married thee.”
“It is not Antony. Antony has not a fault. Not one!”
“I am glad thou hes found that out at last. Well, the carriage is waiting and I’ll bid thee good-bye; and I hope thou may get thysen all together before to-morrow at this time.”
With these words Josepha went and Annie threw herself into her chair with a sense of relief. “I know she intended to stay for dinner,” she mentally complained, “and I could not bear her to-night. She is too overflowing—she is too much every way. I bless myself for my patience for twenty-seven years. Is it really twenty-seven years?” And with this last suggestion she lost all consciousness of the present hour.
In the meantime Josepha was not thinking any flattering things of her sister-in-law. “She wanted me to go away! What a selfish, cross woman she is! Poor Antony! I wonder how he bears her,” and in a mood of such complaining, Josepha with all her kindly gossiping hopes dashed, went almost tearfully home.
Annie, however, was not cross. She was feeling with her husband the gravity of public affairs and was full of anxious speculation concerning Katherine. A change had come over the simple, beautiful girl. Without being in the least disobedient or disrespectful, she had shown in late days a thoroughly natural and full grown Annis temper. No girl ever knew better just what she wanted and no girl ever more effectually arranged matters in such wise as would best secure her all she wanted. About Harry Bradley she had not given way one hair’s breadth, and yet evidently her father was as far as ever from bearing the thought of Harry as a son-in-law. His kindness to him in the weaving shop was founded initially on his appreciation of good work and of a clever business tactic and he was also taken by surprise, and so easily gave in to the old trick of liking the lad. But he was angry at himself for having been so weak and he felt that in some way Harry had bested him, and compelled him to break the promises he had made to himself regarding both the young man and his father.
For a couple of hours these subjects occupied her completely, then she rose and went to her room and put away her new gown. It was a perfectly plain one of fawn-colored brocade with which she intended to wear her beautiful old English laces. As she was performing this duty she thought about her own youth. It had been a very commonplace one, full of small economies. She had never had a formal “coming out,” and being the eldest of five girls she had helped her mother to manage a household, constantly living a little above its income. Yet she had many sweet, loving thoughts over this life; and before she was aware her cheeks were wet with tears, uncalled, but not unwelcome.
“My dear mother,” she whispered, “in what land of God art thou now resting? Surely thou art thinking of me! We are near to each other, though far, far apart. Now, then, I will do as thou used to advise, ‘let worries alone, and don’t worry over them.’ Some household angel will come and put everything right. Oh, mother of many sorrows, pray for me. Thou art nearer to God than I am.” This good thought slipped through her tears like a soft strain of music, or a glint of sunshine, and she was strengthened and comforted. Then she washed her face and put on her evening cap and went to the parlor and ordered dinner.
Just as she sat down to her lonely meal the door was hastily opened, and Dick Annis and Harry Bradley entered. And oh! how glad she was to see them, to seat them at the table, and to plentifully feed the two hungry young men who had been traveling all day.
“Dick, wherever have you been, my dear lad? I hevn’t had a letter from you since you were in Edinburgh.”