“Oh, that’s no matter at all, Aunt Ellen. I’ll take it as 423 soon as I see if he’s home all right. Yes, my friend says my husband has been home for three days and is well.”
“That’s good. Noo ye’re satisfied, lay it by and tak’ yer tea.” And Hester smilingly laid it by and took her tea, for Mary Ballard had said nothing on the first page to startle her friend’s serenity.
Jean Craigmile, however, still looked eagerly at the letter as it lay on a chair at Hester’s side. She was a sweet-faced old lady, alert, and as young as Peter Junior’s father, for all she was his aunt, and now she apologized for her eagerness by saying, as she often did: “Ye mind he’s mair like my brither than my nephew, for we all used to play together––Peter, Katherine, and me. We were aye friends. She was like a sister, and he like a brither. Ah, weel, we’re auld noo.”
Her sister looked at her fondly. “Ye’re no so auld, Jean, but ye might be aulder. It’s like I might have been the mither of her, for I mind the time when she was laid in my arms and my feyther tell’t me I was to aye care for her like my ain, an’ but for her I would na’ be livin’ noo.”
“And why for no?” asked Jean, quickly.
“I had ye to care for, child. Do ye no’ understand?”
Jean laughed merrily. “She’s been callin’ me child for saxty-five years,” she said.
Both the old ladies wore lace caps, but that of Jean’s was a little braver with ribbons than Ellen’s. Small lavender bows were set in the frill all about her face, and the long ends of the ribbon were not tied, but fell down on the soft white mull handkerchief that crossed over her bosom.
“I mind when Peter married ye, Hester,” said Ellen. “I was fair wild to have him bring ye here on his weddin’ 424 journey, and he should have done so, for we’d not seen him since he was a lad, and all these years I’ve been waitin’ to see ye.”
“Weel, ’twas good of him to leave ye bide with us a bit, an’ go home without ye,” said Jean.