“I guess your auntie was one of the particular kind,” he said.
“No, sir, 'twas mamma. She couldn't bear dirty things. Auntie used to say that mamma hunted dust with a magnifying glass. She didn't, though; she only liked to be neat. I guess dust doesn't worry men so much as it does women.”
“Why?”
“Oh, 'cause there's so much of it here; don't you think so? I'll help you clean up by and by, if you want to.”
“YOU will?”
“Yes, sir. I used to dust sometimes when mamma was out sewing. And once I swept, but I did it so hard that auntie wouldn't let me any more. She said 'twas like trying to blow out a match with a tornado.”
Later on he found her standing in the sitting room, critically inspecting the mats, the furniture, and the pictures on the walls. He stood watching her for a moment and then asked:
“Well, what are you lookin' for—more dust? 'Twon't be hard to find it. 'Dust thou art and unto dust thou shalt return.' Every time I go outdoor and come in again I realize how true that is.”
Emily shook her head.
“No, sir,” she said; “I was only looking at things and thinking.”