"
"Father couldn't hear me, for I never speak when he's at home,"
said grave little Waitstill. "And I'm used to going to bed
without my porridge."
II
THE SISTERS
THE river was still running under the bridge, but the current of
time had swept Jacob Cochrane out of sight, though not out of
mind, for he had left here and there a disciple to preach his
strange and uncertain doctrine. Waitstill, the child who never
spoke in her father's presence, was a young woman now, the
mistress of the house; the stepmother was dead, and the baby a
girl of seventeen.
The brick cottage on the hilltop had grown only a little
shabbier. Deacon Foxwell Baxter still slammed its door behind him
every morning at seven o'clock and, without any such cheerful
conventions as good-byes to his girls, walked down to the bridge
to open his store.
The day, properly speaking, had opened when Waitstill and
Patience had left their beds at dawn, built the fire, fed the
hens and turkeys, and prepared the breakfast, while the Deacon
was graining the horse and milking the cows. Such minor "chores"
as carrying water from the well, splitting kindling, chopping
pine, or bringing wood into the kitchen, were left to Waitstill,
who had a strong back, or, if she had not, had never been unwise
enough to mention the fact in her father's presence.
Pages:
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27