“Your aunt don’t know we’re coming?” asked the chief guest of the occasion.
“Oh, no, I never send her word,” said Miss Pendexter. “She’d be so desirous to get everything ready, just as she used to.”
“She never seemed to make any trouble o’ havin’ company; she always appeared so easy and pleasant, and let you set with her while she made her preparations,” said Mrs. Hand, with great approval. “Some has such a dreadful way of making you feel inopportune, and you can’t always send word you’re comin’. I did have a visit once that’s always been a lesson to me; ’twas years ago; I don’t know’s I ever told you?”
“I don’t believe you ever did,” responded the listener to this somewhat indefinite prelude.
“Well, ’twas one hot summer afternoon. I set forth an’ took a great long walk ’way over to Mis’ Eben Fulham’s, on the crossroad between the cranberry ma’sh and Staples’s Corner. The doctor was drivin’ that way, an’ he give me a lift that shortened it some at the last; but I never should have started, if I’d known ’twas so far. I had been promisin’ all summer to go, and every time I saw Mis’ Fulham, Sundays, she’d say somethin’ about it. We wa’n’t very well acquainted, but always friendly. She moved here from Bedford Hill.”
“Oh, yes; I used to know her,” said Abby, with interest.
“Well, now, she did give me a beautiful welcome when I got there,” continued Mrs. Hand. “’Twas about four o’clock in the afternoon, an’ I told her I’d come to accept her invitation if ’twas convenient, an’ the doctor had been called several miles beyond and expected to be detained, but he was goin’ to pick me up as he returned about seven; ’twas very kind of him. She took me right in, and she did appear so pleased, an’ I must go right into the best room where ’twas cool, and then she said she’d have tea early, and I should have to excuse her a short time. I asked her not to make any difference, and if I couldn’t assist her; but she said no, I must just take her as I found her; and she give me a large fan, and off she went.
“There. I was glad to be still and rest where ’twas cool, an’ I set there in the rockin’-chair an’ enjoyed it for a while, an’ I heard her clacking at the oven door out beyond, an’ gittin’ out some dishes. She was a brisk-actin’ little woman, an’ I thought I’d caution her when she come back not to make up a great fire, only for a cup o’ tea, perhaps. I started to go right out in the kitchen, an’ then somethin’ told me I’d better not, we never ’d been so free together as that; I didn’t know how she’d take it, an’ there I set an’ set. ’Twas sort of a greenish light in the best room, an’ it begun to feel a little damp to me,—the s’rubs outside grew close up to the windows. Oh, it did seem dreadful long! I could hear her busy with the dishes an’ beatin’ eggs an’ stirrin’, an’ I knew she was puttin’ herself out to get up a great supper, and I kind o’ fidgeted about a little an’ even stepped to the door, but I thought she’d expect me to remain where I was. I saw everything in that room forty times over, an’ I did divert myself killin’ off a brood o’ moths that was in a worsted-work mat on the table. It all fell to pieces. I never saw such a sight o’ moths to once. But occupation failed after that, an’ I begun to feel sort o’ tired an’ numb. There was one o’ them late crickets got into the room an’ begun to chirp, an’ it sounded kind o’ fallish. I couldn’t help sayin’ to myself that Mis’ Fulham had forgot all about my bein’ there. I thought of all the beauties of hospitality that ever I see!”—
“Didn’t she ever come back at all, not whilst things was in the oven, nor nothin’?” inquired Miss Pendexter, with awe.
“I never see her again till she come beamin’ to the parlor door an’ invited me to walk out to tea,” said Mrs. Hand. “’Twas ’most a quarter past six by the clock; I thought ’twas seven. I’d thought o’ everything, an’ I’d counted, an’ I’d trotted my foot, an’ I’d looked more ’n twenty times to see if there was any more moth-millers.”