She was sweeping her porch on that day in May when Susanna and Sue had wakened in the bare upper chamber at the Shaker Settlement—Sue clear-eyed, jubilant, expectant, unafraid; Susanna pale from her fitful sleep, weary with the burden of her heart.
Looking down the road, Mrs. Banks espied the form of her brother John walking in her direction and leading Jack by the hand.
This was a most unusual sight, for John's calls had been uncommonly few of late years, since a man rarely visits a lady relative for the mere purpose of hearing “a piece of her mind.” This piece, large, solid, highly flavored with pepper, and as acid as mental vinegar could make it, was Louisa Banks's only contribution to conversation when she met her brother. She could not stop for any airy persiflage about weather, crops, or politics when her one desire was to tell him what she thought of him.
“Good-morning, Louisa. Shake hands with your aunt, Jack.”
“He can't till I'm through sweeping. Good-morning, John; what brings you here?”
John sat down on the steps, and Jack flew to the barn, where there was generally an amiable hired man and a cheerful cow, both infinitely better company than his highly respected and wealthy aunt.
“I came because I had to bring the boy to the only relation I've got in the world,” John answered tersely. “My wife's left me.”
“Well, she's been a great while doing it,” remarked Louisa, digging her broom into the cracks of the piazza floor and making no pause for reflection. “If she had n't had the patience of Job and the meekness of Moses, she'd have gone long before. Where'd she go?”
“I don't know; she did n't say.”
“Did you take the trouble to look through the house for her? I ain't certain you fairly know her by sight nowadays, do you?”