She remembered the various emotions old newspapers had given her when she first came to Aunt Jane's. This was Abigail Weatherby's husband—he had survived her by a dozen years. “I'm glad it's Charles Winfield instead of Carl,” thought Ruth, as she put it aside, and went on with her work.
“Pantry's come,” announced Winfield, a few days later; “I didn't open it, but I think everything is there. Joe's going to bring it up.”
“Then you can come to dinner Sunday,” answered Ruth, smiling.
“I'll be here,” returned Winfield promptly. “What time do we dine?”
“I don't know exactly. It's better to wait, I think, until Hepsey goes out. She always regards me with more or less suspicion, and it makes me uncomfortable.”
Sunday afternoon, the faithful Joe drove up to the gate, and Hepsey emerged from her small back room, like a butterfly from a chrysalis. She was radiant in a brilliant blue silk, which was festooned at irregular intervals with white silk lace. Her hat was bending beneath its burden of violets and red roses, starred here and there with some unhappy buttercups which had survived the wreck of a previous millinery triumph. Her hands were encased in white cotton gloves, which did not fit.
With Joe's assistance, she entered the vehicle and took her place proudly on the back seat, even while he pleaded for her to sit beside him.
“You know yourself that I can't drive nothin' from the back seat,” he complained.
“Nobody's askin' you to drive nothin' from nowhere,” returned Hepsey, scornfully. “If you can't take me out like a lady, I ain't a-goin'.”
Ruth was dazzled by the magnificence of the spectacle and was unable to take her eyes away from it, even after Joe had turned around and started down hill. She thought Winfield would see them pass his door and time his arrival accordingly, so she was startled when he came up behind her and said, cheerfully: