“Oh, a little. But no more than anybody would be at first. I don't look very tired, do I?” Ellen laughed.
“No, you don't,” said Fanny, looking at her cheeks, reddened with the damp wind. The mother's look was admiring and piteous and brave. No one knew how the woman had suffered that day, but she had kept her head and heart above it. The stew for Ellen's supper was a proof of that.
“Where's father?” asked Ellen, taking off her hat and cape, and going to the sink to wash her face and hands. Fanny saw her do that with a qualm. Ellen had always used a dainty little set in her own room. Now she was doing exactly as her father had always done on his return from the shop—washing off the stains of leather at the kitchen sink. She felt instinctively that Ellen did it purposely, that she was striving to bring herself into accord with her new life in all the details.
Little Amabel came running out of the dining-room, and threw her arms around Ellen's knees as she was bending over the sink. “I've set the table!” she cried.
“Look out or you'll get all splashed,” laughed Ellen.
“And I dusted,” said Amabel.
“She's been as good as a kitten all day, and a sight of help,” said Fanny.
“She's a good girl,” said Ellen. “Cousin Ellen will kiss her as soon as she gets her face washed.”
She caught hold of a fold of the roller towel, and turned her beautiful, dripping face to her mother as she did so.
“That stew does smell so good,” said she. “Where did you say father was?”