“Couldn’t be nicer, ma’am,” reassured Alec. “You need ’em for a touch o’ life to your black.”
Thus assured, the little old lady sat in state, her eyes glowing and her folded hands trembling with excitement.
“No, John,” she said a few moments later, as she declined Mr. Hunter’s outstretched arms. “No, thank you. When I get so I have to be lifted out, 112 I’m not coming any more. Turn just a little more, Alec. There! Here I am!”
It was her grand-niece whom she greeted first.
“My dear!” she cried, holding the tall, gray-eyed girl at arms’ length. “How you grow! John, she’s grown an inch since she rode over a month ago. I believe upon my soul she has. And looks more like you every day! Kiss your old aunt, dear! She’s plum proud of you!”
Then she turned to the others, whom Virginia proudly introduced one by one.
“It’s a blessed sight—all these young folks together,” she said, shaking hands with them all. “Except for Pioneer Reunions, I haven’t seen so many all to once for fifty years. And so you all come from away back East—the place we used to call home? It ain’t that any longer to us old folks—but the memories are dear all the same!”
She stepped briskly upon the porch and toward the chair Virginia had placed for her. The Vigilantes and Aunt Nan watched her, fascinated. Virginia had told them of her wedding journey across the plains in ’64; of the hardships and dangers she 113 had withstood; of lonely winter days in a sod hut, and of frightful perils from Indians. She seemed so little someway sitting there, so frail and wrinkled in the big chair. It was almost incredible that she had lived through such terrible things. They longed to hear the story of it all from her own lips. Virginia’s recital was thrilling enough! What then must Aunt Deborah’s be?
But Aunt Deborah was in no haste to talk about herself! She was far more interested in Virginia’s friends—their respective homes and families—their school life and their plans and dreams for the future. Somehow the Vigilantes found it the easiest thing in the world to tell Aunt Deborah their ambitions. Aunt Nan found it easy, too, to speak of Virginia’s mother to this dear old lady who had known and loved her. Virginia held Aunt Nan’s hand close in her own as they heard Aunt Deborah tell of Mary Webster’s coming to Wyoming; then a far rougher land than now; of her brave fight against homesickness; of her transformation of the Buffalo Horn School; and, finally, of the fierce struggle within herself over whether she should return 114 to Vermont or stay to marry a Wyoming ranchman.
“My nephew John,” finished Aunt Deborah proudly. “A good man. None other than a good man could have won Mary Webster.”