She could
not hear; their heads were so turned that she could not see
their faces. The moon made it almost as bright as day. From the
pasture woods came a low, sweet chorus of night life--frogs and
insects and occasionally a night bird. From the orchard to the
left and the clover fields beyond came a wonderful scented
breeze. She heard a step in the hall; her Aunt Sallie
appeared--a comfortable, voluble woman, a hard worker and a
harder eater and showing it in thin hair and wrinkled face.
"Why, Susie Lenox, ain't that you?" she exclaimed.
"Yes, Aunt," said Susan.
Her aunt kissed her, diffusing that earthy odor which is the
basis of the smell of country persons. At various hours of the
day this odor would be modified with the smell of cow stables,
of chickens, of cooking, according to immediate occupation. But
whatever other smell there was, the earthy smell persisted. And
it was the smell of the house, too.
"Who's at the gate with your Uncle Zeke?" inquired Sallie.
"Ain't it George?"
"Yes," said Susan.
"Why don't he come in?" She raised her voice. "George, ain't you
coming in?"
"Howdy, Sallie," called George. "You take the girl in. Zeke and
I'll be along."
"Some business, I reckon," said her aunt to Susan. "Come on.
Have you had supper?"
"No," said Susan. She was hungry now. The splendid health of the
girl that had calmed her torment of soul into a dull ache was
clamoring for food--food to enable her body to carry her strong
and enduring through whatever might befall.
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