The girl was fourteen, angular, blond, nervously put up. She left the room. Beside her place was a lad but a year younger—Josiah junior—with a dark face that wore a scowl of pathetic disillusion. And on the table’s farther flank sat three others: Marsden who was nine, Jonas who was six, Rhoda whose five years required her chair to be buttressed up by cushions. One mood joined them all—intentness upon dinner, indifference to all else. Mrs. Cripper doled out and sank into her chair. The prim dress was too tight, but it held. Sylvia returned, seated herself demurely and began to eat. Potatoes, doughnuts, tea were on the table. Mrs. Cripper helped the two youngest of those present; the others reached out for themselves. All ate what pleased them. No one spoke. And no one seemed adverse or uncomfortable, in the silence.
Mrs. Cripper, at length, had news to impart:
“Sarah’ll be gettin’ up, tomorrow.”
Josiah took the news, as if stoically. Then, his eyes twinkled and he looked up.
“So you’ll be goin’?” he observed.
“Yes, thank you.” Mrs. Cripper was offended.
“Oh, it probably’ll not be for long,” he appeased her.
“I think this is all, Josiah.”
“Thank God for that!” Bitter humor had precedence, in his tone, before the real hope.
“Don’t take on that way.”