Two of the Landis children ran to greet Amanda as she opened the gate and entered the yard.
“I’ll lay my parasol by the gate,” she said. “Where’s your mom?”
“In the kitchen, cannin’ blackberries,” said little Henry.
As Amanda rounded the corner of the house, the two children clinging to her arm, Mrs. Landis came to the kitchen door.
“Mother of my knight, I salute you,” said Amanda, making as low a bow as the two barnacle children, the bouquet and the basket with its crock of apple butter, would allow.
“What,” laughed Mrs. Landis. “Now what was that you said? The children make so much noise I can’t hear sometimes. Henry, don’t hang so on Amanda’s arm, it’s too hot.”
“I said--why, I said--I have some apple butter for you that Mom sent and I picked a bouquet for you,” the child replied, her courage suddenly gone from her.
“Now, ain’t that nice! Come right in.” The woman held the screen door open for the visitor.
Mrs. Landis, mother of the imaginary knight and of six other children, was a sturdy, well-built woman, genial and good-natured, as stout people are reputed to be. In spite of hard work she retained a look of youthfulness about her which her plain Mennonite dress and white cap accentuated. An artist with an appreciative eye might have said that the face of that mother was like a composite picture of all the Madonnas of the old masters--tender, love-lighted yet far-seeing and reverent.
Amanda had always loved Mrs. Landis and spent many hours in her home, attracted by the baby--there always was one, either in arms or just wobbling about on chubby little legs.