Aunt Sarah pursed her lips and tossed her head, as though mentally saying: “You can’t tell me anything about that.”
Ruth said: “I have heard he was peculiar, sir. But I do not remember of ever seeing him.”
“You did see him, however,” said Mr. Howbridge. “That was when you were a very little girl. If I am not mistaken, it was when this lady,” and he bowed to the silent, knitting figure in the rocking-chair, “who is known as your Aunt Sarah, came to live with your mother and father.”
“Possibly,” said Ruth, hastily. “I do not know.”
“It was one of few events of his life, connected in any way with his relatives, of which Mr. Stower spoke to me,” Mr. Howbridge said. “This lady expressed a wish to live with your mother, and your Uncle Peter brought her. I believe he never contributed to her support?” he added, slowly.
Aunt Sarah might have been a graven image, as far as expressing herself upon this point went. Her needles merely flashed in the sunlight. Ruth felt troubled and somewhat diffident in speaking of the matter.
“I do not think either father or mother ever minded that,” she said.
“Ah?” returned Mr. Howbridge. “And your mother has been dead how long, my dear?” Ruth told him, and he nodded. “Your income was not increased by her death? There was no insurance?”
“Oh, no, sir.”
He looked at her for a moment with some embarrassment, and cleared his throat again before asking his next question.