Since she had come again to his house--she had lived with
him once before for two years when his wife was slowly dying--it had been
a different place. Housekeeping had cost less than before, yet the
cooking was better, the place was beautifully clean, and discipline
without rigidity reigned everywhere. One by one the old woman's boys and
girls had died--four of them--and she was now alone, with not a single
grandchild left to cheer her; and the life out here with Abel Baragar had
been unrelieved by much that was heartening to a woman; for Black Andy,
Abel's son, was not an inspiring figure, though even his moroseness gave
way under her influence. So it was that when Cassy's letter came, her
breast seemed to grow warmer, and swell with longing to see the wife of
her nephew, who had such a bad reputation in Abel's eyes, and to see
George's little boy, who was coming too. After all, whatever Cassy was,
she was the mother of Abel's son's son; and Aunt Kate was too old and
wise to be frightened by tales told of Cassy or any one else. So, having
had her own way so far regarding Cassy's coming, she looked Abel calmly
in the eyes, over the gold-rimmed spectacles which were her dearest
possession--almost the only thing of value she had.
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