Just as I was starting for school, a handsome, well-dressed man of middle age turned in at our gate.
“This is where Mrs. Truman lives, isn’t it?” he asked, seeing me standing in the door.
“Yes, sir,” I said, and wondered with some misgiving whether mother could have been mistaken in the date of the mortgage.
“I should like to see her for a few minutes, if she is at home,” he added.
“Come in, sir,” I said, “and I will call her.”
But we met mother coming down the front stair as we entered the hall.
“This is my mother, sir,” I said.
“My name is Chester, Mrs. Truman,” began our caller. “I come from Plumfield.”
“From Plumfield!” cried mother. “Oh, then—Aunt Nelson—”
“Is dead—yes,” said Mr. Chester, gently.