This time it was not pushed open by Sarah's gentle hand, but was flung back, as though the master of the house were about to enter.
Thinking it was her husband, Mrs. Kalb did not turn at once.
"Well, did you get back?" she asked.
Then, with her arms uplifted to the hook where her shawl hung, she looked round over her shoulder.
A tall young man stood, not on the step, where tramps and agents belonged, but in the kitchen itself, his hand on Mrs. Kalb's freshly scrubbed table.
"Get out of my kitchen," she commanded. She was afraid of no tramps, but there was something in the clear gaze of this young man which frightened her. But he was clean and sober, and he looked like some one whom she knew. "What do you want?" she asked in a more friendly tone.
"Who are you?" asked the stranger.
"I am Mrs. Jacob Kalb, and this is my house."
"Where—" said the young man, and Mrs. Kalb never told the story afterwards without crying—"where is my mother?"
"Your mother!" she repeated. She stared at him with open mouth. Then she said slowly, "It is William Wenner that you look like."