At the front gate her trunk was dumped. She paid the driver fifty cents; watched him drive away; then turned and looked at the white house with green shutters, where she had been born. It had been newly painted.
The world seemed very still there. She set her suitcase beside her trunk, laid flowers, books, periodicals, fruit, bon-bons on top of it, and walked slowly around the house to the dairy.
One of her half-brothers, Cyrus, came out in his white, sterilised milking jacket and trousers, chewing gum.
“Well, f’r Gawd’s sake,” he said when the slow recognition had been accomplished.
She offered her gloved hand and he took it with a plowman’s clasp and wrung it, shifting from one leg to the other—rural expression of cordiality—legs alone eloquent.
Commonplaces said, she made inquiries and learned that everybody was well.
“Go right in, Eris! Pa’s getting into his milkin’ duds; Ma she’s cookin’ supper. Go right in, Sis! I guess you know the way——” loud laughter and a large red hand under her arm to pilot and encourage.
In the kitchen Mazie turned from the range, then set aside a skillet, wiped both hands on her apron, and took Eris to her ample bosom.
When she had kissed her stepdaughter sufficiently: “Pa!” she called, “oh, Pa! Get your pants on and come down here quick!”