Taking her New Testament in large type from the small table near her, Aunt Affy found the place and laid it on the arm of her chair; Judith lifted herself and read where Aunt Affy’s finger pointed: “And to our beloved Apphia—but that isn’t Affy,” said astonished Judith.
“It grew down to it when I was a girl, and has never grown up. Shall I find Rody?”
Again Aunt Affy found the place, and Judith read. “‘And as Peter knocked at the door of the gate, a damsel came to hearken named Rhoda.’ That’s very funny,” she said, settling down among her rags.
“There were eight of us girls, and we all had Bible names: Rody, Dark, that was Dorcas, Mary, Marthy, Deborah, that’s your mother’s mother, Hanner, it is really Hannah, Becky, and Affy the youngest, is eight. Rody and I only are left. They were all married but Rody and Becky and me. Cephas was engaged to poor Becky, and she died; he went away after that, went South, went West, and at last came here; I wrote to him to come and finish his days with me. Rody wasn’t exactly pleased.”
“Why?” asked Judith, excited over the old folks’ romance.
“She doesn’t like new happenings, and she never had liked Cephas.”
“She scolds him,” said Judith, with a feeling of sympathy.
“She scolds me. She scolds the minister. It is only her way of talking.”
At that moment Aunt Rody’s blue gingham sunbonnet appeared at the window; Judith’s nervous fingers worked hurriedly.
“Not done yet. Jean Draper is worth two of you. The graham bread is out of the oven, a perfect bake, and I am going to call on Mrs. Evans, and take Nettie a custard.”