So they stayed, the air blew damp, Aunt Affy brought a shawl and pinned it about the stooping shoulders; Cephas came and sat down on the step of the piazza with his hat on his knee, giving uneasy glances now and then at the muffled, still figure in the chair.
“It’s getting dark,” suggested Affy, rising and standing before the bent figure with its head turned stiffly to one side.
“And damp—these nights are chilly for old bones,” replied Cephas.
“There’s a light in the house,” persuaded Affy, “and it’s dark out here.”
“And the bed is so comfortable,” added Cephas; “guess I’ll go in.”
He arose and went in.
“I’m going, too,” encouraged Affy. “Come, Rody, you may sleep in my bed.”
“I won’t sleep in my bed; are you sure there’s nobody to strike me in your room?” she questioned like a frightened child.
“Nobody but me. Come, Rody,” she urged, gently.
Placing a hand on each arm of the chair, the old woman lifted herself to her feet; then she felt out in the darkness for something to lean on; Affy took her arm and led her in. The lamp was burning on the round table where the New York Observer was piled; Doodles slept on his cushion on the lounge.