“What is your name?”
Elizabeth went over the old formula.
“My name is Elizabeth Scott; my grandfather’s name was John Baring.”
The old lady responded in deeds and not in words. She rose and peas and pan fell clattering to the floor. The cat, startled out of sleep, dashed away, and all that had seemed a moment ago so friendly and peaceful was now inimical and confused.
“I can’t sit with a granddaughter of John Baring!” said the old lady. “You made a mistake to come back here! Why, you’re his image!”
Elizabeth sat still.
“Won’t you hear me till the end?” she asked. This melodramatic behavior was, she believed, sincere. She was all the more anxious, unpleasant as the situation was, to ask questions.
“Well, what have you to say?” The old lady stood with her hand on the latch of the screen door, ready for instant flight.
“After I had been treated so rudely, I determined to find out what was the matter, so I went to an old gentleman in Gettysburg, Colonel Thomas, and he told me about John Baring.”
“He could tell you the truth! He was a soldier himself. He knows what John Baring did!”