American fiction -- 20th century; Country life -- Fiction
He shook hands with her gravely, according to their habit, and she
heard his steps along the frozen lane. Then she opened the door softly a
crack--this was old custom, too--that she might hear them farther. This
time she was sure she actually knew when he turned into the road. She
went back to the room and stood for a moment, her hand resting on the
table, looking at the orderly fire and then at the chair which seemed to
belong more to him than to her father. The cat got up from the lounge
where, as she knew perfectly well, she had to content herself when Cap'n
Oliver came, stretched, and walked over to the chair as if to assert her
ownership. She was gathering her muscles for the easy leap when Miss
Letty pounced upon her, gently yet with an involuntary decision.
"Don't you get up there, puss," she said jealously. "Do you think you've
got to have a share in everything that's goin'?"
Then she laughed at herself in a gentle shame, lifted puss into the seat
of desire, and stroked her ruffled dignity, and still laughing, in that
indulgent way, sat down to see the fire out before she went to bed.
The next day Miss Letty set about cleaning her house, the actual first
step toward leaving it; and suddenly, as she worked, at a moment she
could never identify, it came over her that things which had been hers
by such long usage that they were as unconsidered as her hand that
wrought upon them, were to be hers no more. Then, as she dusted and
rubbed, she stopped from time to time, to regard the rooms and their
furnishings musingly and wonder if she should remember every smallest
touch of their homely charm. She hoped she should at least remember.
All the week she did not see Cap'n Oliver. He was over at the Pinelands,
she understood, making his married sister a little visit, as he always
did in the fall of the year. If she thought it a little hard that he
should be away the last week her home was to wear its accustomed face,
she did not say so, even to herself. It seemed to her a poor habit to
wish for what was obviously not to be, and all by herself she set upon
the day for the sale of her goods and sent for the auctioneer to come.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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