“It's an awful storm.”
“Pretty bad, but I got along all right. The snow-plough has been out.”
“Wait a minute till I get this swept,” said Andrew, sweeping violently before her.
“You needn't have bothered, father,” said Ellen.
“I 'ain't anything else to do,” replied Andrew, in a sad voice.
“There's mother watching,” said Ellen.
“Yes, she's been diggin' at them wrappers all day.”
“I suppose she has,” Ellen returned, in a bitter tone. Her father stared at her. Ellen never spoke like that. For the first time she echoed him and her mother. Something like terror came over him at the sound of that familiar note of his own life from this younger one. He seemed to realize dimly that a taint of his nature had descended upon his child.
When Ellen entered the house, the warm air was full of savory odors of toast and tea and cooking meat and vegetables.
“You'd better go right up-stairs and put on a dry dress, Ellen,” said Fanny. “I put your blue one out on your bed, and your shoes are warming by the sitting-room stove. I've been worrying as to how you were going to get home all day.” Then she stopped short as she caught sight of Ellen's face. “What on earth is the matter, Ellen Brewster?” she said.