"This day's seemed dreadful long, somehow."
"That's because we are expecting Ida," said Cynthia, who was patching a sheet by the light of a west window. "And I suppose the day has seemed long to her, too."
"Yes, poor child, travellin' since ten o'clock this mornin'," said Aunt Patty. "I guess she'll relish our cold chicken 'n' orange marmalade, Cynthy."
"I wonder if she's changed much?" Cynthia put down her work and looked meditatively from the window. "Six years is a long time, Aunt Patty."
"Yes, Ida's a young lady now, dearie," Aunt Patty sighed. "And she's lived so different from what we have, Cynthy. We mustn't expect her to fall into our ways right away. She'll have to learn to love us all over again, you see."
Cynthia turned a tender glance upon the little plainly dressed old woman sitting in the open doorway sewing carpet rags.
"SHE WON'T HAVE ANY TROUBLE LEARNING TO LOVE YOU."
"She won't have any trouble learning to love you, Aunt Patty," she said. "Just think what we owe to you! Neither of us can ever forget for a moment all you've done for us."
"I haven't done anything but what was my duty, child. When your poor mother died, there wasn't any one but me to take you 'n' Ida; but I've never been able to do for you as I'd like."