The sun was flooding the big living-room when Mary-Clare, Noreen, and Jan-an sat down to the meal Jan-an had prepared. There was a feeling of safety prevailing at last. And then Jan-an, her elbows on the table, her face resting in her cupped hands, remarked slowly as if repeating a lesson:
“He’s dead, Philander Sniff. Went terrible sudden after taking all this time. I clean forgot––letters and doings. I can’t think of more than one thing at a time.”
Mary-Clare set her cup down sharply while Noreen with one of those whimsical turns of hers drawled in a sing-song:
“Old Philander Sniff, he died just like a whiff–––”
“Noreen!” Mary-Clare stared at the child while Jan-an chuckled in a rough, loose way as if her laugh were small stones rattling in her throat.
“Well, Motherly, Philander was a cruel old man. Just being dead don’t make him anything different but––dead.”
“Noreen, you must keep quiet. Jan-an, tell me about it.”
Mary-Clare’s voice commanded the situation. Jan-an’s stony gurgle ceased and she began relating what she had come to tell.
“I took his supper over to him, same as usual, and set it down on the back steps, and when he opened the door I said, like I allas done, ‘Peneluna says good-night,’ and he took in the food and slammed the door, same as usual.”
“Old Philander Sniff–––” began Noreen’s chant as she slipped from her chair intent upon a doll by the hearthside.