“I want to know!” Hannah exclaimed, rather irrelevantly, in her excitement dropping a stitch in her knitting.
She was instantly aware of the misfortune, however, and while the mother and son exchanged greetings after their ten years’ separation, Hannah occupied herself in endeavors to pick up the loop of blue yarn which her purblind eyes could scarcely see in the dimming light. When the stitch had been secured, she proffered her own welcome in sober fashion, being, in truth, somewhat overcome by this stalwart and bearded man whom she remembered as a stripling. The two women twittered about the robust newcomer, who took his seat upon the porch steps, pouring out each in her way a flood of questions or exclamations to which he could hardly be expected to pay very close attention.
After a separation of ten years the greetings were naturally warm, but the Southers were not a folk given to demonstrativeness, and it was not to the surprise of Mrs. Souther that before many minutes had passed her son said abruptly:—
“Where is she?”
“There, there,” his mother said, in a tone in which were oddly mingled pride, remonstrance, and fondness, “ain’t you got over that yet?”
“No,” he responded briefly, but laying his hand fondly on that of his mother. “Where is she?”
“Like as not she won’t see you,” his mother ventured.
“She sent for me.”
The two women stared at him in amazement.