"Here you are," he called gayly, as Hannah opened the door. "I've washed my hands of 'em—now they're yours!" And he drove briskly out of the yard.
Hannah neither moved nor spoke. She simply stared.
"Here's a note," began Tilly, advancing shyly, "for Mis' Wentworth."
Mechanically Hannah took the note and, scarcely realizing what she was doing, threw open the door of the parlor—that parlor which was sacred to funerals, weddings, and the minister's calls.
The children filed in slowly and deposited themselves with some skill upon the slippery haircloth chairs and sofa. Hannah, still dazed, went upstairs to her mistress.
"From the asylum, ma'am," she said faintly, holding out the note.
Mrs. Wentworth's eyes shone.
"Oh, the children! Where are they, Hannah?"
"In the parlor, ma'am."
"The parlor? Why, Hannah, the parlor is no place for those two children!" Mrs. Wentworth started toward the door.