“Mother.”
“I laid out your clean undercloze on the foot of the bed and your sox with them.”
One fine afternoon the following week Mrs. Sybert, looking through the geraniums in Maria’s kitchen window, saw her husband drive up to the gate. She did not look surprised.
“Here’s father come to get me, Maria,” she said, lifting her voice.
Maria came out of the pantry with flour on her hands and arms and stood waiting. Mr. Sybert came in, stamping, and holding his head high and stiffly. He had a lofty and condescending air.
“Well, mother,” he said, “I’ve come after you.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Sybert, “set down till I get on my things. I’ve had a right nice vis’t, but I’m glad to get home. Did you find the apple butter?”
On the road home Mrs. Sybert talked cheerfully about John and Maria and their domestic affairs. Mr. Sybert listened silently. He held his body erect, looking neither to the right nor to the left. He did not speak until they approached Mr. Nesley’s gate. Then he said, with firmness and dignity:
“Mother, I’ve b’en thinkin’ that you’d best go an’ see Mis’ Nesley, after all. I changed my mind down at the postoffice groc’ry store that same afternoon an’ went home, meanin’ to tell you I wanted you sh’u’d go an’ see ’er—but you was gone to John’s an’ Maria’s. I reckon you’d best stop right now an’ have it over.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Sybert.