Part 40 (2/2)
”You sang fine, Phbe,” he told her as they went down the street together.
”Yes? I'm glad you liked it.”
Then they spoke of other things, of many things, but not one word of the thoughts lying deepest in the heart of each.
Aunt Maria and Jacob were eating supper in the big kitchen when Phbe reached home.
”Well,” greeted the aunt, ”did you come once! We thought that Feast of Roses would been out long ago. But when you didn't come for so long and supper was made we sat down a while. Did you sing?”
”Yes,” the girl said as she removed her hat and gloves and drew a chair to the table.
”Now,” cautioned the aunt, ”put your ap.r.o.n on! That light goods in your dress is nothin' for wear; everything shows on it so. And if you spill red-beet juice or something on it it'll be spoiled.”
”I forgot.” Phbe took a blue gingham ap.r.o.n from a hook behind the kitchen door. ”There, if I spoil it now you may have it for a rug.”
”Well, I guess that would be housekeepin'! And everything so high since the war!”
”Tell me about the Feast of Roses,” said the father. ”Was the church full?”
”Packed! It was a beautiful service.”
”Well,” spoke up Aunt Maria, ”I'm glad it's over and so are many people.
Of course that Feast of Roses don't do no harm, but I think it's so dumb to have all this fuss just to give somebody a rose. If that man wanted to give the church some land why didn't he give it and done with it?
It's no use to have this pokin' around every year to find the best red rose to give to some man or lady that's related to him. The rose withers right away, anyhow. And this Feast of Roses makes some people a lot of bother. I heard one woman say in the store that she has to get ready for a lot of company still for every person she knows, most, comes to visit her that Sunday and she's got to cook and wash dishes all day. I guess she's glad it's over for another year.”
CHAPTER x.x.xI
BLINDNESS
DAVID EBY had spent the day at Lancaster and returned to Greenwald at seven-thirty. He started with springing step out the country road in the soft June twilight. It was a twilight pervaded by blended perfumes and the sleepy chirp of birds. David drew in deep breaths of the fresh country air.
”Lancaster County,” he said aloud to himself, ”and it's good enough for me!”
Scarcely slackening his pace he started up the long road by the hill. He paused a moment on the summit and looked back at the town of Greenwald, then almost ran down the road to his home.
He whistled his old greeting whistle.
”Here, David, I'm on the porch,” came his mother's voice.
”Mommie,” he cried gaily as he took her into his arms, ”I knew you'd be looking for me.”
Then for the first time since his father's death he heard his mother sob. ”Oh, mother,” he asked, ”is my going away as hard as all that? Or are you only glad to see me?”
”Glad,” she replied, restraining her emotion. ”Sit down on the bench, Davie.”
”Why--I didn't notice it first--you're wearing dark gla.s.ses again! Are your eyes worse?”
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