"I suppose you're Cynthia," said Ida, withdrawing herself gently from her sister's embrace. "I never would have known you in the world," her gaze travelling critically over the small figure in the plain dark gown. "Is that the maid at the gate? Ask her to come and take my satchel."
"The maid!" stammered Cynthia, with a startled look. "Oh, Ida! that's Aunt Patty! Here, give me your satchel."
"Pray excuse my mistake," said Ida, in a low voice, as she relinquished the satchel. "Remember, I was not eleven years of age when I left here, and one so soon forgets faces."
Aunt Patty, fortunately, had not heard her niece's questions, and as Ida approached the gate the old woman threw it open, her kindly face beaming.
"You're most welcome, dear child," she said, with a kiss and a little embrace. "But, dear me, how you've changed!"
"That was to be expected, of course," said Ida, as she followed her aunt around the house to the kitchen porch. "I have been away more than six years, you know, Aunt Patty. By-the-way," pausing at the corner of the house, with a glance backward, "do you not use your front door?"
"Not for common," answered Aunt Patty. "I guess you've forgot our Brookville ways. Folks here think it's more sociable to run in 'n' out their kitchens."
"Ah! I had forgotten," said Ida. "We must show them something different."
Cynthia now came close behind them, carrying the satchel. She had stopped to hold open the gate for the two men, who followed her with the trunk.
"We'd better lug it up stairs for ye, Cynthy," said the stage-driver. "It's everlastin' heavy; chockful of gold, I guess," and he laughed, good-naturedly.