The woman continued her gaze during some seconds, then her hand dropped away from the throbbing little forehead, and she returned to her seat.
That moment the door opened, and Enoch Sharp looked through, with a smile that penetrated into the room like a sunbeam.
"Come, aunt Hannah," he said, "we can do nothing without you."
CHAPTER XXIX.
AUNT HANNAH AND UNCLE NATHAN.
The apple trees were all growing old,
And old was the house that sheltered him;
But that brave, warm heart, was a heart of gold!
Though his head was grey, and his eyes were dim.
Aunt Hannah arose, and walked with a precise and firm step from the room. Enoch Sharp led the way into a low back porch that overlooked that portion of the garden devoted to vegetables. In one end of this porch stood a huge cheese-press; and on the dresser opposite, a wooden churn was turned bottom up, with the dasher leaning against it. Several milking-pails of wood, scoured to a spotless whiteness, were ranged on each side, while nicely kept strainers hung over them. There was a faint, pure smell of the dairy near, as if the porch opened to a butter and cheese-room; but the exquisite cleanliness of everything around made this rather agreeable than otherwise.
The principal object in the porch, however, was an old man seated in a huge armed-chair of unpainted oak, with a splint bottom worn smooth by constant use. The chair stood near the back entrance, and the old man seemed quite too large and unwieldy for any attempt at exercise; but his broad, rosy face was turned toward the door, as he heard Enoch Sharp and his sister coming through the kitchen; and one of the frankest smiles you ever beheld, beamed from his soft brown eyes over the benevolent expanse of his face.
"Well, Nathan, what do you want of me?" inquired the austere lady in her usual cold tones.
The good man seemed taken aback by this short address. He looked at the Judge as if for help, saying,