When Honora returned, Aunt Mary had donned her apron, and was industriously aiding Mary Ann to wash the dishes and maintain the customary high polish on her husband's share of the Leffingwell silver which, standing on the side table, shot hither and thither rays of green light that filtered through the shutters into the darkened room. The child partook of Aunt Mary's pride in that silver, made for a Kentucky great-grandfather Leffingwell by a famous Philadelphia silversmith three-quarters of a century before. Honora sighed.
“What's the matter, Honora?” asked Aunt Mary, without pausing in her vigorous rubbing.
“The Leffingwells used to be great once upon a time, didn't they, Aunt Mary?”
“Your Uncle Tom,” answered Aunt Mary, quietly, “is the greatest man I know, child.”
“And my father must have been a great man, too,” cried Honora, “to have been a consul and drive coaches.”
Aunt Mary was silent. She was not a person who spoke easily on difficult subjects.
“Why don't you ever talk to me about my father, Aunt Mary? Uncle Tom does.”
“I didn't know your father, Honora.”
“But you have seen him?”
“Yes,” said Aunt Mary, dipping her cloth into the whiting; “I saw him at my wedding. But he was very, young.”