“Yes,” she said, trembling almost visibly after a glance at the post mark.
“Double postage too,” he said curiously.
“Yes,” she said again.
“Judith had a foreign letter last night, too.”
“Oh, yes, I see all her foreign letters,” she replied with an effort.
“I must go; don’t work too hard. So you like to be your own mistress and your own maid; no help at all this summer?”
“No; and once Judith and I did the washing; it was the best fun we ever had.”
“Our folks say you think you own Judith; but I guess you have as good a right to her as anybody. You and her Cousin Don; you do the most for her.”
He nodded, wiped his forehead with his soiled handkerchief, pushed down his tattered straw hat and went down the steps with a careful tread. Uncle Cephas was an old man—his age had come upon him suddenly. Marion watched him as he walked away; it was easier to look at the load of hay, the hayfield beyond the parsonage garden, easier to look at anything, and think of anything excepting that foreign letter. Why should Don write to her? He had not written for five long years, not once since that letter about Judith from Genoa. Was it because she had—refused him?
During all these years it never once entered her thoughts that she had refused him.