“Mr. Flint,” said Sally, “shall I get supper ready?” Susan looked up in astonishment at hearing the name.
“Yes,” the old man remarked, “we both have the same name. The fact is, Jacob and I are a sort of relations.”
Jacob, in spite of his new happiness, continued ill at ease, although he could not help seeing how his father brightened under Susan's genial influence, how satisfied he was with her quick, neat, exact ways and the cheerfulness with which she fulfilled her duties. At the end of a week, the old man counted out the wages agreed upon for both, and his delight culminated at the frank simplicity with which Susan took what she supposed she had fairly earned.
“Jacob,” he whispered when she had left the room, “keep quiet one more week, and then I'll let her know.”
He had scarcely spoken, when Susan burst into the room again, crying, “Jacob, they are coming, they have come!”
“Who?”
“Father and mother; and we didn't expect them, you know, for a week yet.”
All three went to the door as the visitors made their appearance on the veranda. Two of the party stood as if thunderstruck, and two exclamations came together:
“Samuel Flint!”
“Lucy Wheeler!”