Patsy was properly horrified at her small brother’s greediness, but Mrs. Wilson laughed and sent him home, munching a generous slice of shortcake.
After supper Mrs. Wilson and the girls went out on the front porch. It was wide and long, set high on brick pillars, with a flight of steps leading down to the long boxwood-bordered walk.
“There is a loose railing,� said Mrs. Wilson. “I must nail it in place to-morrow.�
“You are as careful about mending and tending Broad Acres as you are about Ruth’s darning and patching,� laughed Patsy.
“Yes,� said Mrs. Wilson. “It’s all in the family. Broad Acres is a dear old part of the family.�
“How old is it, Cousin Agnes?�
“The house was built in 1762,� said Mrs. Wilson, with quiet pride. “It was made strong, to be a fort, in case of Indian attacks. That is why the shutters are so thick, with the little hinged middle pieces for loopholes to fire from.�
“The Yankees came by here in The War,� said Ruth.
“In April, ’65,� agreed her mother. “The doors and shutters were closed, with crape hanging from them, in mourning for the dead Confederacy. Sherman’s men marched past, without disturbing the house, thinking there was a corpse in it.�
“This very bench we’re s-s-sitting on is c-called the President’s bench, because W-W-Washington sat here when he was v-visiting my way-back-grandfather. Tell about that, mother,� said Ruth.