“John,” she answered, with a sigh, “sometimes I think you'd better get another housekeeper.”
“What? Are you going to leave me? YOU?”
“Oh, 'twouldn't be because I wanted to. But it seems almost as if there was a kind of fate hangin' over me and that,” she smiled faintly, “as if 'twas sort of catchin', as you might say. Everybody I ever cared for has had somethin' happen to 'em. My brother died; my—the man I married went to the dogs; then you and Grace had to be miserable and I had to help make you so; I sent Nat away and he blamed me and—”
“No, no. He didn't blame you. He sent you word that he didn't.”
“Yes, but he did, all the same. He must have. I should if I'd been in his place. And now he's dead, and won't ever understand—on this earth, anyhow. I guess I'd better clear out and leave you afore I spoil your life.”
“Aunt Keziah, you're my anchor to windward, as they say down here. If I lost you, goodness knows where I should drift. Don't you ever talk of leaving me again.”
“Thank you, John. I'm glad you want me to stay. I won't leave yet awhile; never—unless I have to.”
“Why should you ever have to?”
“Well, I don't know. Yes, I do know, too. John, I had another letter t'other day.”
“You did? From—from that man?”