The maid turned and left the room. She felt more or less dazed. Nothing so startling as Aunt Mary’s wanting a trunk had happened in years. Disinheriting Jack was not in it by comparison. She went slowly away to find Joshua and found him in the farther end of the rear woodhouse—John Watkins, like several of his ilk, having marked each forward step in the world by a back extension of his house.
Joshua was chopping wood; his ax was high in the air. He also was calm and unsuspecting.
“She’s goin’ to the city all alone!” Lucinda’s voice suddenly proclaimed behind him.
The ax fell.
“Who says so?” its handler demanded, facing about in surprise.
“She says so.”
Joshua picked up the ax and poised it afresh. He was himself again.
“She’ll go then,” he said calmly.
Lucinda marched around in front of him, and planted herself firmly among the chips.
“Joshua Whittlesey!”