“This is a lovely spot,” said Lilian. “When you are really settled in your new house, you will enjoy it more than ever.”
“I don’t know. It’s just as the Babe turns out to like it. The cabin’s been his cradle. If the new one goes against him I’ll lock it up and bring him back home. Come in,” invited the old man, climbing his doorstep. “Here’s Betsey will be glad to see you.”
From the smoked and chinked interior groped a large woman so delicately and completely white that the blanching appeared to extend through her eyes, for the lids revealed them colorless. She wore a black net cap and a dress and a cape of faded lawn. Her heelless soles made no sound on the bare boards. The palms which she spread before her had the texture of shriveled dogwood petals. The stirring of the lawn clothes set free scarcely detected perfumes,—of apples, and mint, and the old-fashioned roses which grow nowhere now except in remote and dewy country gardens.
“It’s the young lady from the camp, Betsey, come to visit us to-day.”
“That sounds heartsome,” the blind sister responded. Lilian took one of her fluttering hands; the other half unconsciously, with the swiftness of custom, moved up the girl’s shoulder and passed over cheek and head. Lilian noticed in what masses of wrinkles this handsome old face hung, and wondered at the miracle of age; at the childish sweetness that comes back to toothless talk. “I love to have the young around. It’s been missly in the house since Babe’s mother died.”
“Well, take a cheer,” said Mr. Marsh, “and I’ll look into the kitchen and tell Marthy Dempsey who’s for dinner. Marthy she keeps house for us, and she’s a good cook; she used to work in a tavern down at Shawnytown.”
Jerome lingered on the log step while his father performed the sacred rite of seating a guest. Aunt Betsey groped toward him.
“But where’s the Babe?”
“The Babe’s as far in as he likes to come,” said his father. “The Babe’s great for outdoors in summer time.”
“The dew’s off the garden,” spoke Jerome.