It was all too much for Aunt Polly and she unrolled her knitting and set the needles to their accustomed task. Eventually Mary-Clare would come to the inn and simply tell her story––full well Polly knew that. It was Mary-Clare’s way to keep silent until necessity for silence was past and then calmly take those she loved into her confidence. But there were disturbing things going on. Aunt Polly could not blind herself to them.
At this moment Northrup’s step sounded outside. He came hastily, but making little noise.
“What’s up?” he asked, starting back at the sight of Aunt Polly.
“Just me, son. Your dinner is scorched to nothing, but I wanted to tell you where the cookie jar is.”
Northrup came over to the sofa and sat down.
“You deep and opaque female,” he said, throwing his arm over the little bent shoulders. “Own up. It isn’t cookies, it’s a switch. What have I done? Out with it.”
Aunt Polly laughed softly.
“It’s neither cookies nor switches when you come down to it,” she chuckled. “It’s just waiting and not knowing why.”
Northrup leaned back against the sofa and said quietly:
“Guessing about me, Aunt Polly?”