Well, arter I had sot there a while a thinkin, I felt so bad that I jist thought I would go up to the house and take a look at them rooms and the place we had so long loved as our home.
I felt afraid like to go, but I thought it might cheer me up to look into them rooms that I had cleaned and papered and swept—the rooms where Jobe and me had set in and slept; the rooms that had sheltered us in sickness and in health.
So I jist throwed a shawl over my head, and walked up the walk that I had walked up thousands of times.
There were the currant bushes, the lilac, the dead poppy stalks. And all the weeds and posies, that used to appear to wear a smile for me, now seemed to turn from me as if to say, “We haint yours any more. You have no bizness here now.”
“I slipped over and put my face agin the glass.”
And as I looked at them and felt that feelin, a lump would raise up in my throat, no matter how much I swallered and tried to keep it back.
Well, I walked on until I got up to the kitchen winder. When I got there it jist seemed that I couldent look in, but, knowin I had come there to see them rooms, half afraid like but determined, I slipped over and put my face agin the glass.
Everything was silent and still. There was my kitchen, all empty. Not a thing to be seen but that dear old kitchen—empty—no stove, no table, no chairs, no nothin. There was the winder where I stood cryin the mornin Jobe left. There by that winder I had set a combin my little Jane’s hair years ago, while she drew pictures on them same winderpanes with her little fingers. There were the nails Jobe had drove in the wall when we fust moved in; there was the same floor over which we had walked for years. Oh, how I longed to be a walkin over it agin! I was locked out—I couldent git in.
So I went from one winder to another, lookin in at them rooms. There was the same grate that had warmed us; there in that corner, evenin arter evenin, Jobe had set and studied; there in the other corner I had set and knit, or set and read. It seemed that I could see Jobe there now. Oh! how I would love to see him there. Poor Jobe! I wonder if he thinks of the evenins weve spent beside that fire together. There was our bed-room—empty, silent and still—no bed, no nothin. There in that room I had set, nite arter nite, with little Jane when she was sick; there she had throwed her little arms around my neck and put her fevered face agin mine the last time. From that room Ellen Jane Moore had carried her arter she was gone. It was empty now. I was locked out. I couldent go in.